Chapter X
15th Day, Month of Rain, 1854
The Boy adjusted his cravat for the third time in as many minutes, his fingers uncooperative. The last time he had been clad in such finery, the night had ended with a knife plunged into his throat. He tried not to think about that as he sunk his fingernails into the padded seat of the rail carriage. The air in the carriage was stifling. Through the window, the Estate District flew by in a whirl of colour. The salty smell of the Wrenhaven faded.
The Boy itched to tell the Whales of his and Billie's plan, but they had gone curiously silent. He couldn't tell whether they were waiting with baited breath, or if they had given up on him entirely. Either way, after spending so many months haunted by their song, he felt their absence like a hollow ache where his heart should have been.
The carriage ground to a halt outside what had to be the entrance to Cora Rothwild's estate. The Boy had expected something ostentatious, similar to the wealthy residences that overlooked the Wrenhaven. What he saw instead was an industrial-looking edifice that loomed over the front courtyard. It stood out against the well-manicured grounds of the neighbouring mansions, ugly as a knife wound. The message was clear - Rothwild was here, and one way or another, she would leave a mark.
As he stepped out of the carriage, The Boy schooled his expression into bored condescension. Tonight, he was Konstantin Soroka-Ganus, the son of a Tyvian ore baron. Tonight, he would be Cora Rothwild's downfall.
Guests milled in clusters along the drive, some smoking, others content to chat. None of them paid him much attention, save to wonder briefly who he was before losing interest and returning to their gossip. The path skirted a fountain with a statue of a Whale's tail, water cascading from its fin. The Boy shuddered and quickened his step.
He handed his invitation to the guard at the doors, who scanned it and raised an eyebrow. "Soroka-Ganus, eh? I've got something for you." The guard handed him an envelope. The Boy took it with a curt nod and retreated a few steps before opening it. Inside was a small plain card with a message printed on it.
Soroka-Ganus, it read, our mutual friend tells me you're reliable, and I hope she is right.
Do not approach me. Do not tell anyone why you are here. Do not disappoint me.
There was no embossed logo, no handwriting, not even a seal on the envelope. Nothing that would betray the person who had written it. The Boy carefully replaced the note in the envelope and pocketed it. "If anyone realises you're spying on them, Rothwild will deny any knowledge of you," Ames had told him. "So unless you enjoy the idea of getting the snot beaten out of you by some noble's goons, watch your step."
In the entrance hall, a trio of stone-faced musicians played softly in the corner, as guests drifted in and out of salons to either side, sipping mulled wine and plucking canapes off trays borne by harried-looking servants. Guards posted at each door kept a watchful eye on the crowd. They wore simple grey jackets, no emblem or insignia visible on their uniforms. Private guards, then, not Watchmen.
From the midway landing of the grand staircase, Cora Rothwild surveyed the gathering as if she were a collector eyeing her treasures. Her dark hair was swept back from her high forehead, the style of her suit cut ruthlessly to show off her tall physique. The crowd chatted amongst themselves, but self-consciously, sending glances her way every so often as if wondering why she had not yet joined them. Despite his revulsion, The Boy had to hand it to her; if she was trying to make her guests feel supremely uncomfortable, she was succeeding.
Don't forget why you're really here, he reminded himself, thinking of the Whales' stories. Rothwild, and her father before her, had slaughtered their way into wealth. Playing mind games with her wealthy guests was the least of her sins.
He turned his attention instead to the guests themselves. Some he recognised from the newspaper clippings Ames had made him study; Frances Estermont, Vera Triss, Charles Bunting, the Brisbys… each with ties to Dunwall industry or Parliament - or both. Any number of them could be funding the strikebreakers.
The Boy skirted the edge of the room, earning himself a few sideways glances. No one particularly liked a stranger hovering near them, and he knew from experience that most people found him unnerving. The guards were eyeing him, too. He felt the same tug he'd felt when eavesdropping on Ames, the urge to disappear. The Whales' gift to him. He exhaled slowly and let it take him. Instantly, everyone seemed at ease, their gazes sliding off him as if he was not there at all. They talked more freely, laughed more raucously.
Is this how it's to be? He thought, with a note of bitterness. He was free, but an outsider still. He realised he was chewing his lip, and stopped.
Booming chimes rang through the entrance hall, bringing the conversations around him grinding to a halt. Several people pressed their hands to their ears. As echoes of the last chime faded, in the hush that followed Rothwild spoke;
"My friends and peers," she began, her voice carrying just a hint of working-class drawl. Someone near The Boy snorted. "It's my pleasure to welcome you to my home. Among you are the champions of Dunwall's industrious spirit, as well as those who have so generously offered their patronage over the years." Rothwild paused to smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. There was a smattering of polite applause.
"Tonight's gathering is a gesture of thanks," she went on, "and a celebration of success. May Dunwall continue to grow economically, bringing prosperity to anyone who is willing to work hard…" There was considerably less applause for this statement, but Rothwild continued as if she hadn't noticed. "...cementing it in place as the jewel in the crown of the Empire, as it once was. Now, please. Enjoy yourselves, and if you need anything at all, simply ask my staff. May your evening be a pleasant one."
Murmurs became a hubbub as Rothwild finally descended the stairs, and The Boy took the opportunity to slip undetected into the hallway. The guard's eyes glazed over as he passed.
Faintly, he heard the steward announcing that dinner would be served in the ballroom at half-past seven bells. That gave him a little under half an hour to find a way to smuggle Billie inside.
He made his way down the hall, looking for a way to the servants' quarters. With any luck, Billie would be on her way. Ames would be livid when she didn't turn up for the strike. But if everything went according to plan tonight, the march would be the least of Ames' worries.
The hallways were meandering, and The Boy soon realised he'd gotten turned around. Up ahead he heard the rumble of the crowd in the entrance hall. He took a moment to gather himself, lingering by a parlour door that was cracked open slightly. From within there came the murmur of voices and clinking glasses.
A voice rose above the conversation, the words slurred. "Calling herself 'Lady', now, as if she's one of us! Disgraceful! Who is she to talk about prosperity, anyway? She's brought dozens of good men to ruin, the harpy."
"Blazes, Guillory, you're drunk already. Keep running your mouth like that and you'll get yourself thrown out." The second voice was a louche drawl, much younger sounding than the first. A chorus of chuckles followed, presumably aimed at Guillory. "You're hardly discreet."
"Is'sat so? Well, which one of you did Bryton's place?" Guillory replied, as loud as before and with a touch of petulance. "While we're on the subject of discretion!"
"Does it really matter?"
"Of course it matters!" The others were trying to shush Guillory now. He added, a little quieter, "it wasn't what we agreed on!"
His interest piqued, The Boy nudged the door open a little more and slipped inside. From what he could see, the parlour was lavishly furnished, with a massive salt-water aquarium taking pride of place, distorting his view of the seating area beyond. He pressed himself against the glass, ignoring the sleek black eels swimming around mere inches from his face. All he could make out was a blur of indistinct shapes and the warm flicker of a fire.
"It was me," interjected a third voice sharply, a little above a whisper. "Bryton was close to betraying us. The foundry was failing; he would have told Rothwild everything if he thought it would help him."
How many of you are there? The Boy inched himself sideways until he was able to peer around the edge of the aquarium. Sitting in an armchair was an older man with an arm draped over the side. His silver cufflinks caught the firelight, but The Boy couldn't make out his face.
"That's rather cold of you, isn't it? His own solicitor." The second man sounded faintly admiring.
"It sent a message, did it not?" This came from the man with the cufflinks.
"It nearly brought the Watch down on our heads!" Guillory blustered. Noises of agreement and protest erupted from the rest of the room, a hissed 'shhh!' quietening them.
"Hardly." The man with the cufflinks raised his hand placatingly. "The Watch can poke around as much as they want; they'll find nothing."
"In any case." The Boy didn't recognise this voice. It was dry and papery-thin. "After tonight, The City Watch will be too busy rooting out unionists and agitators on our behalf to go chasing after shadows!"
"Indeed! To tonight, gentlemen!" The man with the cufflinks lifted his glass. Murmurs of "to tonight!" and "to the strikebreakers!" filled the room as the others followed suit. The Boy's heartbeat quickened. The water in the aquarium sloshed against the glass, and the conversation abruptly died.
"What in the Void…? Did you see that?" The Boy ducked quickly towards the door at the sound of Guillory tipsily hauling himself out of his seat.
The second man snorted. "It's just those damned eels. Don't know what Rothwild sees in them. In any case, gentlemen, I suggest we save our celebrations for the Ruin. The walls have ears, after all."
The Boy mentally cursed himself as he slipped away, wrapping the shadows around himself once more. He had almost lost control again, not to mention how distracted he'd been. But those men were talking about the strike, and Ames' people…
No. He was here for Rothwild. For the Whales. He could worry about the agitators later. He carried on, deeper into the house, aware of the minutes ticking by. It would be half-past soon, and he was no closer to finding a way in for Billie.
Focus. He had to focus.
•:•:•:•:•:•
Emily could hardly believe her luck. Industrial-looking monstrosity that it was, Rothwild's house backed onto a narrow canal, with a high-walled yard that served as a servants' entrance. It was cast in shadow by the heating pipes that would have otherwise marred the building's already unsightly facade. She skirted the narrow path at the edge of the canal, ducking into the shadows as a lonely skiff came putting along the canal. The pilot had their chin tucked into their collar, paying no mind to anyone who might be skulking nearby.
Emily paused when the little wooden yard gate opened and a servant stepped through, hands cupped around a cigarette. Her uniform looked similar enough to Emily's stolen one, at least in the dim light. Anna Zoborik had done an incredible job changing her face. Her wound-binding putty had roughened Emily's skin, ageing her, and with some added pigment she looked ruddier than usual. Her hands got the same treatment; they looked as if she had spent a lifetime scrubbing them with harsh soap. Zoborik had also sliced slivers of sole from Emily's shoes to alter her gait. "Remember what I once told you about soldiers? Nothing gives a royal away as obviously as their posture." She'd made Emily walk up and down, feigning the kind of weariness that came with being working-class, until she was satisfied.
The servant at the gate was halfway through her cigarette. Emily took a steadying breath. It was time to test her disguise.
"Excuse me," she said, stepping out into the open. "Can you let me in?" The woman looked up, startled at her approach. Her eyebrows drew together in a frown.
"Oh, blazes," she said. "You're not one of the new girls, are you? You're hours late. All the guests are here and everything."
"I know, I just-" Emily dropped her gaze, her voice cracking. "It wasn't my fault. It was the ferry, and… and I really need this job." The other woman's face softened. Emily didn't blame her - she almost had herself convinced.
"Alright, alright, blazes. Don't cry." She sighed and flicked her cigarette into the canal. "Follow me. But if Mister Burke catches you, I didn't-" she never got to finish her sentence. Emily had her forearm wrapped around her throat, cutting off her blood flow. The woman struggled, and for a horrible moment Emily wondered whether was out of practice, but seconds later she went limp.
"Sorry," Emily whispered, dragging the unconscious woman into the corner of the yard and laying her in the shadows. "Someone would have asked you about me eventually." She brushed herself off and headed for the servants' entrance.
The kitchen bustled with activity. Servants carried empty trays in, exchanging them for new ones piled high with drinks and canapes before hurrying out again. To Emily's dismay, their uniforms were deepest navy, not black, but they seemed far too busy to notice or care. She must have lingered for too long, because someone thrust a tray of tiny pastries into her hands. She followed the others into the hall, but ditched the tray at the first opportunity and headed instead for the stairs. If Rothwild kept an office here, that was where she should start.
The narrow servants' staircase opened out into a dimly-lit hallway. The doors along the hall were shut, and somewhere nearby, Emily heard slow footsteps approaching. She ducked back into the stairwell as a grey-coated guard ambled past, humming under his breath. A blackjack swung from his belt. Emily chewed her lip and peeked around the doorframe at his retreating back. He didn't seem in much of a hurry; likely he'd gotten the short straw of minding the silent upper floors while his colleagues got to watch the night unfold downstairs.
She waited until the guard was out of sight, and crept into the hallway. Rothwild apparently didn't go in for the swathes of drapery and ornate decor that was so popular among the nouveau riche. Instead, the hallway was sparse. Were it not for the plush carpet and the few pieces of furniture, it would have been almost austere. The closed doors gave little clue as to what might be inside. She could try them at random, but the longer she lingered, the likelier it was that the guard would circle around and spot her.
A glimmer of light through a glass door on Emily's right caught her eye, so she opened it a crack. It led to a lounge area overlooking a ballroom. Smaller and less elegant than the ballroom at Dunwall Tower, it was set out for a banquet. Above the tables hung scyphic lamps, dozens of them, in cage-like contraptions. Emily frowned. Anna Zoborik hadn't told her that she'd made an order for Rothwild. Surely it would have come up earlier, when she was helping Emily with her disguise?
Still wondering, Emily withdrew to the hallway and tried another door, this time on the left. Locked. Trying the other doors yielded the same result. She swore quietly, pressing onwards until she found a single unlocked door, which led to a modest bathroom. Emily locked the door behind her and sat on the privy lid to consider her options.
Rothwild was no fool; whatever trade secrets she had in this ugly house of hers, she clearly didn't want to risk one of her guests wandering upstairs and stealing them. Emily would have been tempted to try picking the locks, had she thought to bring her lock picks with her. A parting gift from old man Sokolov, she'd had to keep them well hidden from Corvo, who would have seen them as a security risk. She had few opportunities to practice with them, and besides, for all she knew, Rothwild's locks were state-of-the-art traps that would blow up in her face if she tried.
Footsteps approached, and Emily went to the door and pressed her eye to the keyhole. The guard had completed his circuit of the floor. She caught a glimpse of a keyring jangling on his belt, and an idea began to form in her mind. She waited for him to pass the bathroom door, and snuck out into the hall behind him.
"Excuse me, sir?" she called. The guard gave a start and swung round, his blackjack raised.
"What the-" he took in Emily's uniform and gave a ragged sigh of relief. "Outsider's teeth, don't sneak up on a man like that! What are you doing up here?" Emily ducked her head in what she hoped looked like contrition, but was really so he wouldn't look at her face straight-on.
"Mister Burke sent me. I'm supposed to prepare Ms. Rothwild's office for an unexpected meeting. But I… forgot to ask him for the key." This was a gamble; Emily crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping the 'Mister Burke' the girl in the courtyard had mentioned was a steward, at least. "He has his hands full, what with the-" she floundered for a moment - "other new girls," she finished, weakly. She didn't dare look up to see if the guard had believed her story. Try not to make too much eye contact, Zoborik had told her.
"Maybe I should check with Burke…" The guard sounded doubtful. Don't ask me where my cleaning supplies are, Emily pleaded silently.
"I'm already short on time, if I'm to finish by the end of dinner." Awkwardly, Emily toed the carpet, then decided she was laying it on a bit thick and stopped. The guard must have been taken in, though, because he groaned softly.
"Alright, fine. I'll let you in, but I'm going in with you. I'm not getting my pay docked because some new girl went snooping where she wasn't supposed to." Emily nodded, though she clenched her fingers tight enough to leave crescents in her palms. She would have to distract him somehow, if she was to uncover any of Rothwild's secrets.
She followed him along the hallway and hung back while he unhitched the keyring from his belt, unlocking an unmarked door. "By the way," he said over his shoulder, "it's Lady Rothwild, unless you want to find yourself out on your ear. You wouldn't be the first to make that mistake."
To Emily's dismay, the office was spotless. A typewriter and an audiograph player sat upon an oaken desk, and the walls were lined with shelves of ledgers. A pristine decanter of water sat on a side table. Emily felt the guard eyeing her suspiciously even as she marched past him into the room. She cast about for something, anything, to justify her presence. An ashtray caught her eye, sitting on the edge of the desk. There was only a scattering of ash in the bottom, but she snatched it up gratefully - at the same time a shadow fell across her. She turned to find the guard looming over her, scowling.
"You're a liar," he snapped, tapping his blackjack menacingly against his thigh. "What are you really doing here?" Emily swallowed and shrank back against the desk. The ashtray sat heavy in her hand.
"You've got three seconds," the guard warned her, when she didn't answer. "One." He shifted his weight. "Two." Emily's muscles tensed, as the guard's knuckles whitened, his grip tightening on his weapon. "Three-" the guard swung his blackjack, and Emily threw herself to the polished floor. She rolled, catching his legs and sending him sprawling to the ground. She tucked her feet beneath her and righted herself, scrambling out of the way of the blackjack as he lashed out from the floor. He grunted and started to struggle to his feet, opening his mouth to shout for help.
Emily had no time to think. She hefted the ashtray in her hand and brought it crashing down on the side of his head. He crumpled and went still.
For an agonising moment, the only sound in the room was Emily's breaths as she strained her ears for a sign that anyone had heard their struggle. The guard didn't move. Blood trickled from the gash on his head into a sticky puddle on the floor. There was blood on the ashtray too, and she gingerly set it aside.
She shut the office door and locked it. Then she dragged the guard's body to the far side of the desk, where it would be out of sight. There was little she could do about the blood; at least not without wasting more time.
She tore her eyes away from the body and tried the topmost desk drawer. Locked. Of course it was. Her patience spent, Emily withdrew the slender blade from her sleeve and slipped it into the gap between the desk top and the drawer. A few moments of gritted teeth and brute force later, the latch splintered and the drawer slid open. Within were what had to be hundreds of audiographs, each meticulously labelled and sorted by date. There had to be years' worth of memoirs in this drawer alone.
She ran her fingertips over them until she reached Month of Harvest, 1854: Expansion. With shaking fingers, Emily withdrew the first audiograph, dated the second of the month. She slotted it into the machine and switched it on. The tinny speakers crackled into life as the copper card jerked and twitched in the machine's slot.
"You're bleeding me dry. I hope you're pleased with yourself." The voice was male, and Emily didn't recognise it. Given the date, it was fair to assume it belonged to Lord Bryton.
"Well, I'm afraid beggars can't be choosers." Rothwild sounded feminine but cold; she spoke with the precision of someone straight out of elocution training. But there was a distinct drag to her vowels that reminded Emily of the girls at the Golden Cat, all those years ago. "Those are the terms, take them or leave them."
"It's true what they say about you," muttered Bryton.
"Oh, I know exactly what the old boys in the Cetacean Society say about me." Rothwild chuckled, a sound that chilled Emily to the core, and she wasn't even its target. "Don't look so shocked! You really believe a name like that wasn't going to catch my attention? You insult my intelligence."
"If you know so much, then why are you helping me?"
"That's funny, I thought I was bleeding you dry. Just sign the damned contract, Bryton, and you can be on your way."
This time it was Bryton's turn to laugh. "If you think I'm going to sign something of yours without letting my solicitor read it…"
"That's the smartest thing you've said this evening. You're cleverer than you are observant, at least."
"What the - are you recording this? Why, I should-"
"Spare me the hypermasculine posturing." Rothwild said, her tone bored. "Think of this as insurance."
"For what?"
"You tell me. Your old boys' club can't wait to see me gone."
"It's your own fault, you know. Spouting that rubbish about six-day weeks and raising wages. The unions are turning every worker in the city against us, and you've picked the wrong side."
"The wrong side?" Rothwild snorted audibly. "There are whalers fighting each other for a spot aboard my fleet. Your workers are marching in the streets. You and I both know which side is the right one."
"It's not how these things work! There are rules-"
"And look where those rules have gotten you," said Rothwild, interrupting Bryton's spluttering. She sighed. " You know, my father made so many mistakes, but of them all, the worst was to try and play by your so-called 'rules'. Maybe it's time I changed them." There was another long pause, with only the faint sound of fabric rustling. Then, "Until next time, Lord Bryton."
The audiograph clicked off, and Emily sat back in stunned silence. She wasn't entirely sure yet what she had just heard, but it felt significant. Dazedly, she took the copper card out of the audiograph player and put it carefully back in the drawer where she had found it.
On second thought, she took it out again and stuffed it down the neck of her blouse. She had to get this to Sweeney, somehow, even if it meant breaking into his apartment and leaving the audiograph on his pillow. She smiled grimly, imagining the look on the Watch captain's face when he heard its contents.
But first, she had to figure out what it all meant. She reached into the drawer and selected the next audiograph. Heart pounding with exhilaration, she slotted it into the machine and flipped the switch.