Chapter IX
14th Day, Month of Rain, 1854
Billie's smuggling runs showed no sign of drying up. Her personal feelings about the agitators' leader aside, the coin was good and she was damned if she was going to take Monty's place handing out flyers on the street. (Ted never did return. Billie didn't blame him.) Her days were filled with endless to-ing and fro-ing, punctuated by the spluttering put-put of the skiff's engine. Ames apparently had her grubby digits in countless pies, judging from the unlikely-seeming drop points. The canal behind the cooperage wasn't so bad, but the outflow pipe near Croyton tannery had reeked so badly Billie's stomach threatened mutiny. She wasn't only transporting paper and food, either - there were metal boxes with their labels sanded off that clinked as Ames' people hauled them aboard. Billie knew better than to ask questions, but she recognised ammunition when she saw it, and the scraps of paint left on the boxes were the deep blue of the City Watch.
Ames kept The Boy busy too. He brought back a steady stream of news from his forays into the city, which the agitators received with mixed feelings. The City Watch had petitioned Parliament to ban industrial action at munitions factories. The Milliners Guild had broken its agreement, and the resulting riot had ended with half the Drapers' Ward in flames. Whale oil stockpiles dwindled as refinery workers across Dunwall laid down their tools and took to the streets instead. The mood amongst Ames' crew thickened like the atmosphere before a storm.
One evening, Billie returned to the safe house to find The Boy in the middle of having a suit fitted, much to her bemusement. The jacket was sleek and sharply cut, made of soft wool dyed the rich blue-green of the deepest sea. The tailor - a rake-thin woman with a clipped Tyvian accent - fussed at his sleeves as Ames looked on.
"And if I tell you to get a new coat, you pout like I've kicked your dog," Billie remarked, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk.
"It's for a job," said The Boy, with no trace of pleasure. The tailor turned her attention to the buttons on The Boy's jacket, which he tolerated with the air of a cat forced to endure being petted.
"Our delightful benefactor has invited Dunwall's best and brightest to a soiree at her estate. A celebration of success - her success, mind you." Billie thought Ames looked entirely too pleased with herself. "Doesn't our Storyteller make a flawless son of the nouveau riche ?"
"He is not the one my mistress asked for," said the tailor, her brow furrowing. "I have so much to do to make him presentable. I'll have to work through the night to finish in time."
"Yes, well, I thought it best to keep our esteemed boss' involvement between as few people as possible. You know how people like to talk."
Billie was frowning too, but for an entirely different reason. "A party? You expect The Boy to learn how to dance?"
"It's not that kind of party." The Boy peeled off his jacket and handed it back to the tailor, who unsmilingly took it and departed, complaining under her breath in her mother tongue.
"Think of it more as a dinner," Ames agreed. "And a prime opportunity for us to discover who among Rothwild's rivals is throwing money at the strikebreakers."
Billie quirked a skeptical eyebrow. "Right, because that's so much better." She caught The Boy's eye. "So, your lordship; what's the difference between a salad fork and a regular fork?"
"In Gristol, the salad fork lies to the left of the fish fork," said The Boy, without hesitation. "Which is to the left of the dinner fork." His lip twitched infinitesimally. "In some places it sits below the dessert fork, but that style went out of fashion before the rat plague."
"Well, aren't you full of surprises." Billie didn't have to ask why The Boy had agreed to this; what better way to infiltrate the Rothwild estate than to be invited through the front door? But that didn't mean she had to pretend it was a good idea.
"I knew I'd chosen the right man for the job," said Ames brightly. If she had noticed the pair of them was glaring daggers at each other, she gave no sign. "Ms. Foster, a word?" she inclined her head indicating she wanted to speak to Billie alone. Reluctantly, Billie followed her.
"Don't go too far, Storyteller," Ames called over her shoulder, as The Boy turned to leave. "I have a barber arriving at seven bells. We're going to make you dashing."
"Joy," Billie heard him mutter as he left. Then it was just her and Ames, who was looking at her with a strange expression on her face.
"What a curious pair the two of you make," she remarked. "How did you find one another?"
"Dragged him out of the Void myself." Billie wasn't in the mood. "Who are you sending with him?"
"Why? Are you still worried he'll get his cutlery confused?" A mocking tone crept into Ames' voice. She reached out and smoothed the lapel of Billie's coat, drawing far closer than was necessary. The smell of ink and coffee filled Billie's nose. She stiffened, fighting the urge to slap the woman's hand away.
"That's not an answer."
"You didn't answer my question either." Ames' fingers stilled. "Our Storyteller will be fine. Gathering intelligence is his job."
"And what happens if your benefactor's rivals catch him poking his nose where he shouldn't?"
"Plausible deniability." Ames had the grace to look away, at least. She began to inspect her fingernails. "He knows those are the terms, and besides, it's too late for him to back out now. I need everyone else on hand that night. The unions are joining forces to march on Parliament. Our presence there is twofold; firstly, the strikebreakers and the Watch will be out in force. Second-"
"-Plausible deniability." Billie finished for her. She pressed her lips together, fuming. "After everything The Boy has done for you, you treat him like he's expendable."
"Every one of us is expendable, Megan. Even me." Ames smiled ruefully. "How lucky our Storyteller is, to have someone watching out for him."
Rage sizzled through Billie. Her fingers clenched into a fist, which she stuffed into her pocket before she did anything she would regret later.
"Someone has to," she snapped, turning on her heel and storming from the room.
Later, the cloud-wreathed sun was beginning to skim the skyline when Billie found her Boy on the edge of the roof, staring out towards the mouth of the Wrenhaven. She hung back a moment, listening, but if the Whales were speaking to him, he wasn't answering. He was thoughtfully running his fingers through his newly-cut hair, and she felt a sudden surge of fondness, along with the inexplicable urge to muss it up.
"Never thought I'd agree with Ames," she said, coming up beside him and leaning on the railing. "But the aristocrat look suits you. Now all you need to do is act like one." The Boy shot her a sideways look.
"It won't be difficult. Wealthy people are… predictable."
"I prefer insufferable , but yes, that too." Billie lifted her chin and breathed in the salt-tinged breeze. It was tainted with smoke and something metallic, but it was infinitely more pleasant than the fishy stink of the canals she'd been trudging up and down for the past few days.
"I'm not going to try and stop you from doing this. But if you truly want to make a move on Rothwild tomorrow, we should have some kind of plan."
"'We?'" echoed The Boy. "Didn't Ames tell you? I'm on my own."
"I know damn well what Ames said, and she can go take a nosedive off Kaldwin's Bridge." Billie didn't want to talk about Ames right now. At all. "You're not on your own," she said, more gently, "not while there's breath in my body." The Boy said nothing, only stared out at the city below. Were his eyes shining, or was Billie imagining it? He muttered something she couldn't catch, and she leaned in closer. "What was that?"
"Nothing." When The Boy looked up again, his eyes were dry. "Well then, Billie Lurk," he said, "tell me, how do we kill a Whaler Queen?"
•:•:•:•:•:•
15th Day, Month of Rain, 1854
Emily considered her reflection in the foggy mirror, turning this way and that as she took in her disguise with a critical eye. The cut and colour might not match the uniforms worn by Rothwild's servants, but it would have to do. She'd squirrelled away everything she would need, bit by bit; hiding pieces she'd pilfered here and there in her private bathroom. It was no mean task, considering Wyman insisted on having her shadowed everywhere, but her patience had paid off. League guards monitored every hallway and watched every door, never overstepping, but Emily felt them watching her nonetheless. Bath time felt like the only time she ever had to herself.
She had returned from her foray into Lord Bryton's office to a frantic Wyman, their hair still damp from their bath and their cheeks and neck splotchy with anger and humiliation. They dragged her into the closest empty room and rounded on her furiously.
"What in the Void were you thinking?" they demanded, chest rising and falling as they caught their breath. "I've been turning the tower upside down looking for you! I was this close to mobilizing the league! Lord Corvo would have had kittens-" Emily dearly wanted to retort that she'd seen her father outside the very same night, but one look at Wyman's face made her bite her tongue. She tried spinning a story about going for a quick jaunt atop the roof, but the Royal Protector wasn't fooled for an instant.
"That's bilgewater, and we both know it. Don't you think that's the first place I looked? I'm not a fool. I know you went to Bryton's office." They ran a shaking hand through their hair. "I hope it was worth frightening me half to death."
For the sake of keeping the peace, Emily feigned contrition and muttered something about letting Sweeney handle the investigation from now on, even as she thought of Bryton's invitation burning a hole in the Watch captain's pocket. At least Wyman had agreed not to report the incident to Corvo, although Emily suspected that was out of sheer embarrassment.
She finished scraping her hair into a severe bun, completing her disguise. It was enough to change her appearance from a distance, but no-one who got more than a passing glance at her would be fooled. She was too recognisable, and hiding her face wasn't an option - not tonight. But if all went according to plan, she would soon fix that. First, though, she had to get out of Dunwall Tower…
She stuffed her bundled-up clothes into the depths of the dresser and picked up the tiny blade that was to be her only weapon that night. It was a flimsy thing, lightweight and shorter than her forearm. It would be next to useless in a fight, designed more for opening letters than for protection, but the uniform had nowhere to conceal a weapon except in her sleeve, and she felt better for having it with her. Perhaps she could garrotte someone with her apron strings if need be, but she tried not to think too hard about why that might become necessary.
She pressed her cheek to the door, peering into the keyhole. The League guard Wyman had posted in the hallway was at his post at the end of the hall, alert and taciturn as ever. As dismayed by the extra security as Emily was, the guards weren't likely to knock on the door to check on her.
Padding to the window on bare feet, she opened the sash as silently as she could. Grabbing her shoes, their laces tied together, she hung them around her neck and wriggled through the open window to balance on the narrow ledge that ran directly beneath it.
The stone was chilly under her soles, but Emily barely noticed as she took a moment to take in her surroundings. Far below her were jagged rocks and churning, murky water. A short distance along the ledge, a set of chimneys jutted out from the wall, running all the way to the sublevels of the tower, where furnaces kept the building heated, boiled water and disposed of waste. These lower floors vented hot air out via shafts directly above the surface of the river. It was Billie Lurk who had told Emily about these shafts; a parting gift after their travels together. Unnerved that the former assassin knew a way into the tower that she hadn't, Emily had ordered the vents to be locked when they weren't in use, as unlikely as it was that anyone would actually try to use them as a way in.
But a way inside was not what she needed.
She inched along the ledge towards the nearest chimney, letting her toes curl over the edge. She'd opted to do this climb barefooted rather than attempt it in the heeled shoes she'd stolen for her disguise. She kept her eyes trained on the horizon as she took step after painstaking step, until she reached another window. A quick glance inside told her the room within was empty, so she exhaled softly and eased herself past, gripping the windowsill for support. She was close enough to the chimney now to make out the individual bricks.
Then the ledge crumbled beneath her foot.
For a heart-stopping second, Emily teetered as the drop yawned below her. As a child under Corvo's tutelage, she'd learned that slip-ups were inevitable, that as much as she trained and trusted her body, the surface beneath her feet wasn't always as reliable. Visions of her broken body washing up behind the tower flashed through her head. A heartbeat later, her training kicked in, and she threw herself flat against the window, her back slapping the glass with enough force to make the frame rattle.
She remained there for a moment, gasping for breath, her foot dangling over the hole, fingers gripping the windowsill so hard they turned numb. When the dark haze at the edges of her vision had faded and she was able to form actual thoughts again, she made herself release her grip and forced herself onward, this time testing the ledge before every step.
The chimneys were close together, which meant Emily could descend them by pressing her feet against one and her body against the other, instinctively finding hand-and-footholds in the rough brickwork. Her calves burned, as sweat gathered and cooled between her shoulder blades, turning her stolen outfit clammy. But her legs were strong and her grip sure, and it wasn't long until she reached the bottom, dropping the last few yards onto the maintenance catwalk that ran between the vents. Her hands were rubbed raw and her feet hadn't fared any better, but as she hurriedly slipped on her shoes she hoped that her bleeding palms would merely help to sell her disguise.
The slippery catwalk led to a courtyard filled with washing lines. From somewhere beyond the regimented lines of hanging laundry came the sound of servants' hushed voices. Emily wended her way between drying sheets, doing her best to avoid running into anyone. As long as nobody got a proper look at her, they would think nothing of a maid cutting through the yard.
At the far end of the courtyard was a high wall and a crumbling brick shed. It was child's play for Emily to duck behind it and haul herself up. On the other side of the wall was a narrow path that ran alongside the tower grounds. From here, all she had to do was work her way towards the Estate District, where the anonymity of the wider city would swallow her up.
She had one important stop to make before she could even think about sneaking into Cora Rothwild's home. She took a last lingering glance up at the tower, hoping Wyman would forgive her eventually.
"I'm sorry, my love," she murmured, a pang of guilt seizing her heart. "But I have to do this." She steeled herself, and dropped from the top of the wall onto the path, silent as a ghost.
•:•:•:•:•:•
Anna Zoborik leaned back in her seat, rubbing her eyes. Her charcoal-smeared fingers left smudges on her tawny skin, but she was too tired to notice or care. Around her an avalanche of drawings was strewn every which way - over her workbench, the floor, and pinned haphazardly to the wall. The basket by her feet overflowed with discards. Each picture was a variation on the same macabre theme; the horror of Bryton Forgeworks, cast in stark monochrome. The aethergraph had captured not one, but many shadows, reaching from the dark corners of the foundry floor, multiplying as they grew out of the walls and took on human-shaped forms. The poor workers had never stood a chance.
Anna flipped the switch on her light box, killing the lamp inside. She got to her feet stiffly, the hours she had spent translating the images from slide to paper weighing on her. She rubbed her eyes again. It felt to her as if the pictures were burned into her retinas, but the work was important. Sweeney needed to be able to show his colleagues what they were dealing with. Overhead, a scyphic lamp meandered around the room, casting the macabre images in eerie, shifting light. Anna shuddered and swept the nearest lot into a pile, stuffing them into a spare drawer.
The silence in the workshop was oppressive, and Anna's skin prickled with unease as she tidied up. Silly dziecko, she scolded herself, stop being superstitious. You're a woman of science. She dragged herself away from the chilling pictures and crossed the room to the stove, where she set about making herself a much-needed cup of tea. If Sweeney were here he would have made her a cup already, too sweet as usual. The thought brought a smile to her lips, but it was a sad one. If Sweeney were here, she wouldn't feel so on edge.
A sharp rap at the window made her blood freeze in her veins.
To her credit, Anna didn't shriek or faint on the spot. Clutching her heart, she spun to find the empress, of all people, perched on her second-storey windowsill. Reflexively, Anna snarled a Tyvian curse that would have made a sailor blush, all royal etiquette temporarily forgotten. The empress pointed at the lock, and before the first engineer's brain caught up enough to protest, she found herself opening the sash to let her in.
"I'm sorry, Anna, truly," said the empress as she dropped to the floorboards. Oh, so we're on a first-name basis now? thought the natural philosopher waspishly, though she mercifully had the presence of mind to hold her tongue. "I didn't mean to give you such a fright. I couldn't exactly enter the usual way."
For the first time, Anna noticed that the empress - Emily - was dressed in what looked like a servants' uniform. She opened her mouth to ask why, decided that she definitely didn't want to know, and shut it again.
"This is… surprisingly not the strangest thing to happen to me of late," she said, pulling herself together. "Should I expect a similar visit from Lord Attano?"
"Hopefully not. I need-" Emily trailed off as her gaze settled on the charcoal drawings Anna hadn't had the chance to tidy away yet. "By the Void, is that what Sweeney has been chasing?" Anna nodded, more than a little self-consciously. The images had come from her aethergraph, but the pictures were sketched by her own hand. It was irrational, but they made her feel dirty.
"It's- it's monstrous." Emily looked ill. "And all those people…?"
"Dead," said Anna flatly. "And more will join them if Cole cannot find whoever is responsible."
Emily tore her eyes from the pictures. "That's what I'm trying to do. The shadow - shadows - have something to do with Cora Rothwild, the Whaling magnate. I'm not sure how, but she's tied up in this mystery somehow. And I intend to find out - tonight."
"Ah." So that was the reason for the empress' bizarre entrance, not to mention her choice of attire. The puzzle pieces began to slot into place, and Anna frowned with growing disquiet. "You do realise that you are the most recognisable person in the empire? Your face is on the money. Literally."
"That's why I need your help," said Emily. "I need to become invisible."
Anna caught the gleam in Emily's eye with dismay. "I am a scientist, not a magician. And if I refuse to help you with this reckless plan of yours-"
"Then I'll just have to risk it." Emily's tone darkened. "I can't sit by while innocent people die, and keep on dying, as long as this killer is on the loose. I trust Sweeney, but he can't stop it on his own. This is how we can help him."
Heat flared in Anna's cheeks. "It is unfair of you to bring the captain into this, Your Majesty" she said, folding her arms. She knew she sounded defensive, but she didn't care. And this manipulation doesn't suit you, she wanted to add. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of her scyphic lamps had gotten itself stuck between a vent and the ceiling, gently clinking as it spun futilely. Anna could sympathise. "If anyone discovers you," she said, "You must tell no-one I helped you."
"Of course, Anna. I wouldn't risk your tenure at the Academy. I'll say I broke into your workshop if need be. But it won't come to that."
"I am most definitely going to regret this." Anna heaved a defeated sigh. She considered the empress' face; the same fine-boned features that graced stamps and Coin alike. "You had better sit down," she said, beckoning Emily over to her workbench. "We have a lot of work to do."
•:•:•:•:•:•
The atmosphere outside Parliament House was charged. Sweeney stood stiffly, plain-clothed, at the edge of the plaza, dwarfed by the grand building and the imposing wrought-iron fence that protected it. The gates were locked, guarded within and without by blue-coated watchmen.
Beside him was Levitt, the man's expression growing stonier by the minute. His squad - formerly Sweeney's - were stationed at the top of Parliament Street, under strict orders to keep their weapons sheathed and their eyes peeled for the approaching strikers, but officers from other squads milled around the square in clusters, fingering their weapons, while their captains strutted by, grinning at the prospect of some action. It didn't take a genius to hear the malice brewing in their laughter.
"Look at them," Levitt muttered disgustedly in Sweeney's ear. "They're itching for a fight."
"Are you surprised?" said Sweeney. "Half of these boys feel like they have something to prove. I've heard captains taking wagers on how many skulls their boys will crack open tonight."
Levitt bared his teeth in a snarl. "Don't they realise they'd be toiling in the factories like their grandpappies if they hadn't made it into the Watch?"
"Uniform-induced amnesia," said Sweeney mildly. "I've seen it plenty."
"It's a fucking disgrace."
"Speaking of which." Sweeney tilted his chin toward the mouth of an alley on the far side of the plaza, where a motley array of men and women trickled into the square. Each wore a prominent blue sash, but they would have been instantly recognisable anyway, from the clubs, hooks, and other vicious-looking weapons they carried.
"Outsider's teeth, " Levitt swore, and spat on the ground at his feet. "Just what we need." The strikebreakers fanned out, looking for all the world as if they owned the place. Around them, every watchman bristled with indignation. "Oh, good," he added, as the general in charge stepped forward to meet them. "General Bastian will send 'em packing."
"I wouldn't be so sure…" One of the strikebreakers, a stocky man with a pugilists' nose, greeted the general cheerily and handed her a note sealed with wax. She took it and broke the seal, her mouth hardening into a thin line as she scanned the contents. The strikebreaker leaned in and said something, an ugly leer twisting his lumpy features, but the general simply nodded curtly, her face ashen, and tucked the paper into her breast pocket. Sweeney's gut feeling worsened as, at their leader's command, the strikebreakers began to form ranks, mingling with the bewildered watchmen.
"What in the Void was that?" Levitt started, but Sweeney was already striding across the plaza, his cane tapping on the cobblestones. He ignored the ache in his leg as he closed the distance between them. General Bastian whipped her head around at his approach, looking as though she had swallowed a lemon.
"It's not safe for you here, civilian. Go home." Her brow furrowed as she recognised him. "Oh. It's you. What is it, Watch Captain?"
"Are you really giving these thugs free reign here?" Sweeney demanded. "They'll turn the march into a riot, and the strikers will think the Watch has sanctioned it."
"As much as it pains me to say it, the Watch has sanctioned it." Bastian sighed and reached into her pocket, producing the note. To Sweeney's shock, it bore the seal of the Watch chief's office. Behind him, he heard Levitt make a strangled noise of dismay.
"I don't like it either," agreed Bastian, "but orders are orders. If you want my advice, you're not technically on duty, so get out of here."
"Well, that's blown it." Levitt said as General Bastian stalked away. "We'll have a bloodbath on our hands soon, you can be sure of that. Maybe me and my lads can warn off the strikers before they get trapped in the plaza." He cast a sideways glance at Sweeney. "The General's right, you know. You shouldn't hang about. You don't want to be here when the bottles start flying." Not in your condition, he didn't say, but Sweeney heard it nonetheless. He gripped his cane and bit back a snappish reply. Levitt hadn't meant anything by his remark, but it still stung.
"There's still a killer on the loose," he said evenly. "Someone who's targeting striking workers. And now our chief's giving an armed militia carte blanche to start a war in the streets. All things considered, I'd rather stay and keep an eye on things."
"At least join me and the squad. The boys'll be glad to have you there, even if it's just for moral support." Levitt's shoulders sagged when Sweeney stubbornly shook his head. "Suit yourself." he didn't sound convinced. "Just don't get yourself shot. You're no good to anyone if you're dead."
Sweeney watched Levitt hurry past the strikebreakers, who were too busy being smug to pay any attention to him, up towards the entrance of the street. Then he returned to the edge of the plaza, glowering at the deepening shadows as the afternoon sun began to sink. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat and felt the reassuring weight of his pistol.
If the killer was nearby - perhaps among the strikebreakers - then the plaza was the likeliest place for them to strike. All he could do was be ready for them.