Chapter XII
Sweeney bit down on a snarl of frustration as he hooked his cane between two brawling men, yanking them apart. They were locked together like scrapping cats, but a moment later Levitt appeared at his shoulder, pale beneath the floodlights bathing the square. His jaw was set with fury. He grabbed the bigger man by the blue sash he wore and hauled him up.
"Get back to your damn post," he snapped. The strikebreaker leered at him and made a show of straightening his sash as he backed off, probably to join one of the countless other scuffles that had broken out in the square. Sweeney turned to the other man, who was scrambling to his feet. He was barely twenty, by the looks of him, and judging by the blood gushing from his nose, he'd come off worse in the fight. He was also barely looking at Sweeney, his eyes fixed on Levitt's uniform.
"Watch pigs," he said, spitting a red-tinged glob at Levitt's feet. He took an unsteady step towards him, raising a fist, but Sweeney seized his arm.
"Don't be an idiot," he said, giving the lad a shake. "He's not your enemy."
"Get off me!" The lad twisted in his grip and broke free, shoving away from Sweeney. "He picked his side! Haven't you heard? The strikebreakers are in the Watch now!" His lip curled as he took in Sweeney, who knew exactly what he was seeing - an old man with a cane, dressed not in the overalls of a worker, but in a sturdy coat and shiny boots. He made a noise of disgust and loped away, letting the crowd absorb him.
"This is exactly what we knew would happen," Levitt said, rubbing his face. He and Sweeney retreated to the dark edge of the square. Nearby, a striker moaned as her companion bandaged her wrist. "Outsider take us, we're in for a long night." They both glanced up as the light above them flickered and went out. "What in the Void?"
One by one, the overhead floodlights across the plaza sparked and died, plunging the square into darkness. Screams and the sound of bodies colliding filled the air as panic began to set in. Sweeney felt something grip his sleeve and realised it was Levitt.
"What's going on?"
"Could be the Whale oil tanks," said Sweeney, prising Levitt's hand off him, though he gave the man's shoulder a steadying squeeze. "Someone might be tampering with them. You know where they are?"
"Yes, but-"
"Lead on, then. Your eyes will get used to the dark." Sweeney could make out the glow from the lights around Parliament; one of the few buildings that wasn't subject to Whale oil rationing. Levitt uttered a cry as someone ran into him, almost knocking Sweeney off his feet as he staggered. They pressed on cautiously, keeping to the edge of the square and making their way towards General Bastian's command station. Their fellow officers were far too busy scrambling for their lanterns to take much notice of them.
Sweeney's hunch about the Whale oil tanks had been correct, but there was little that could be done. The tanks were scattered, thick glass spiderwebbed with cracks. Oil trickled slickly over the cobblestones. Several Watchmen had their weapons drawn, their lanterns trained on a little girl in the centre of them, her hands up. A torn canvas bag spilled hefty-looking tools at her feet.
"Looks like they caught our vandal," said Levitt.
Sweeney used his cane to inspect one of the metal hatches that had been protecting the oil canisters. There were tell-tale scratch marks around the mangled latch. "I'd have to concur."
A Watchman had moved in to grab the girl, who was kicking and screaming obscenities that would have made a Whaler blush. She couldn't have been any older than eight. The unfortunate officer grunted as her heels caught him in some unfortunate places.
"What are we supposed to do with her?!"
"Stick her in the rail car with the others. Maybe a night in the lockup will improve her vocabulary," said his comrade, sidestepping a vicious kick from the girl.
"I don't bloody think so!" Levitt marched forward. "By the Void, she's just a child!"
"A child who's working for the agitators," pointed out the watchman who was holding her. He grunted with pain as her fist glanced off his chin. "Little bitch!"
"Can you believe this?" Levitt growled, turning to Sweeney, but the Watch Captain's attention was fixed on the square behind them. The noise of the crowd had changed. Before, the shouting had been filled with righteous fury and goading insults. Now there was a distinct atmosphere of panic.
Then the first screams of terror rang out in the darkness, followed by the sharp retort of gunshots. Within seconds, the Watchmen were shouldering their way past Sweeney, weapons and hackles raised. All but the one who still held the struggling girl, who looked at Levitt helplessly.
"Sweeney, look after the girl," ordered Levitt, already turning as if to follow the others. Sweeney felt himself bristle with indignation.
"Now hold on-"
"Look, you're in no condition for a gun fight," Levitt cut him off flatly. His arms flared with exasperation. "There, I said it! You can shout at me later or report me to the General for insubordination, but at least you'll be alive to do it." A shadow of guilt ghosted across his face, but quickly disappeared, replaced with grim determination. "For pity's sake, old friend. Do the sensible thing. Stay safe."
The worst part, Sweeney thought as the relieved watchman handed the girl off to him, was that the man made perfect sense. What could one man with a walking cane do against a pack of heavily-armed thugs? Damn his arthritis. Damn it to the void and back.
Then the watchman and Levitt melted into the writhing night, their voices lost beneath the clamour of weapons, surging bodies and wails of agony. Only Sweeney and the child were left, in the weak light of a forgotten lantern.
"Come on, you." He fought to keep the snarl out of his voice as he gripped her arm tightly. Seeming to sense something in the air had changed, she was no longer struggling, only staring into the dark plaza with wide, frightened eyes. "Let's get you somewhere away from all this, and you can tell me all about your agitator friends."
•:•:•:•:•:•
In the interlude between dinner and the dessert course, The Boy looked up to find Samantha Nathaniels and the strange man, Percival White, had disappeared. Scanning the room, he caught sight of them wending their way through the crowd towards the door. At a passing glance, they looked like any other couple drifting off to talk more privately, but White's iron grip on Nathaniels' arm made unease prickle at the nape of The Boy's neck. Curious, and with a growing sense of trepidation he couldn't put his finger on, he eased himself from his seat and followed them.
Once more allowing the Whales' gift to wrap him in shadows, he trailed them through the entrance hall and out into the lonely courtyard, where the only sound was the crunch of their footsteps on the path and the low burbling of the fountain. There they stood side-by-side, close enough to give the illusion of an amiable conversation, though Nathaniels' posture screamed anything but.
"I've done everything you asked," she hissed, her voice carrying in the cool night air to where The Boy lingered in the shadow of a severely-trimmed hedge.
"That you have, my dear. Don't fret - I fully intend to uphold my end of our agreement. That is, once this night is over, and not a moment before." White's voice was calm. Pleasant, even.
A harsh sound escaped the City Watch Chief's lips. "Some agreement."
"Now, now. Let's not spoil the evening with bitterness. We're both so close to getting what we want."
"And if I can't in good conscience sit back and watch the city's trust in the Watch be destroyed?" The Boy stiffened as White's hand shot out, torpedo-quick, and roughly pulled Nathaniels toward him.
"Don't be a fool, Samantha. " His tone turned glacial. "You've clawed your way up the ladder to get to where you are. Don't throw it all away for the sake of a bunch of ragged dockhands-" Water slapped against the wall of the fountain, cutting off his tirade as he and Nathaniels jerked apart in surprise. "What the?"
In his hiding spot, The Boy forced his fingers to unclench. He was far too close to losing control of himself - and not for the first time that evening, either. He took a slow, deep breath, inhaling the smell of damp stone and greenery, and the roiling water fell still. There was no wind to speak of, not even a breeze to explain the fountain's strange behaviour. He pressed himself deeper into the shadows and hoped that the pair would assume they had been splashed by an errant fish.
White glanced about, suspicion written on his features. At least the distraction had calmed his seething rage to a simmer. "In any case," he continued, turning to his partner, "if your Watchmen are halfway competent, they might even be remembered for this night as heroes."
Nathaniels' voice was barely audible as she forced out between gritted teeth, "You're monstrous."
"And you are beginning to bore me. Now, let's go back in before that oaf Guillory makes an even bigger spectacle of himself. And, by The Outsider, at least try to be civil."
Mind reeling, The Boy waited for them to pass him before silently trailing them inside. Something was horribly wrong, there was no doubt about that, and there was no way for him to warn Ames and the others of the coming danger. Not without abandoning Billie and their plan, and there was no question of that. Ames didn't need him to tell her the risks of marching. She'd been fighting the City Watch long before he came along, and no doubt would continue long after he and Billie left Dunwall behind forever. And who were the others to him, anyway?
All that matters is the plan, he reminded himself, as he slipped back into the role of Konstantin Soroka-Ganus. Shoulders straight, expression haughty. A shroud of steel around his heart to shut out the little voice that insisted, And what of Jennie? Is she not in danger too?
No. He squashed the thought. All that mattered was Rothwild. And Billie.
•:•:•:•:•:•
To Billie's relief, no clockwork sentinel waited for her on the other side of the door. Instead, there was a lavishly furnished room with a sunken lounge in the Culleran style, artfully swathed in thick rugs and floor cushions. Billie ignored all of this and headed instead for the far end of the room, dominated by a curtained-off four poster bed, an ornate fireplace and a dressing screen.
She looked around, trying to figure out the best place to lie in wait for Rothwild, where she wouldn't be seen. Cool air wafted into the room from an open window, chilling Billie's sweat-soaked neck. On the ground below the window lay a wine glass, its contents soaking into the carpet. The strangeness of this, compared to the cold orderliness of the rest of the house, gave Billie pause.
Something's not right here. Her hand went to her blade, sheathed just inside the drape of her coat. She spun on the ball of her foot and scanned the room with fresh eyes, searching for anything else out of place. Backing up towards the fireplace, she felt her shoulders hit the mantel, but nothing in the room stirred.
A hand made of darkness reached out of the gloom and grabbed her ankle.
In a flash, Billie drew her blade and slashed at it, rolling away and leaping to her feet when it lost its grip. The hand withdrew, and a second later a woman melted out of the shadows, straightening with a feral grin. Something about her was deeply wrong; her greyish skin looked calcified, speckled with black rock Billie was all-too-familiar with. It rose in spikes from her arms, had taken over much of her face. It put Billie in mind of a ship's hull encrusted with barnacles.
"You're not supposed to be here," the woman sing-songed, her voice like stones scraping together. "Well, well, Rothwild's been a naughty girl, hasn't she? Seems Lord Bryton's not the only one with a bone to pick…" She scraped an unnaturally long fingernail along the mantel. Billie shuddered and tightened her grip on her blade.
"What in the Void are you?" she said roughly, putting as much space between herself and the stranger as possible.
The woman tittered. "I'm one of a kind, sweetpea. I'd love to stop and chat…" she danced forward, and Billie matched her steps to keep the distance between them. "...but I was here first. No hard feelings?" She had barely gotten the last syllable out before she lunged, claw-like hands aimed at Billie's face. Billie swung her sword up and knocked her aside. Sparks flew; her fingers were blackened with stone and sharpened to razor-sharp points.
Billie was on the back foot, she knew - she could defend herself from the stranger's wild strikes, but she was an arm short and had to work twice as hard. Unlike the strikebreakers, with their lumbering stride and slow wits, this woman had the deadly grace of a dancer. Billie hooked her foot around the leg of an ottoman and sent it flying at her attacker's knees. It took her by surprise and she slammed to the floor, but when Billie tried to drive her blade into her throat, she brought her hands up and caught it easily.
"Nice try, love," she snarled, wrenching it out of Billie's grasp. Billie jerked away and unsheathed her second blade, but the woman was already on her feet. She attacked again in a flurry of swiping strikes, pushing Billie back towards the sunken lounge. Billie's heel teetered on the edge of the uppermost step. It was a momentary distraction, but enough - in a second the stranger was upon her, smashing her hardened fist into Billie's jaw.
She landed awkwardly, catching the edge of a low table with her shoulder. Not her sword arm; even in her dazed state she knew to be thankful for that. It still sent pain shooting through her, and she grit her teeth and rolled out of the way just in time to avoid a deadly strike from the woman's outstretched claws. Feathers spilled into the air from a rent cushion as Billie scrambled to regain her footing. She seized another cushion and flung it at the woman's face. Hardly an effective weapon against those claws, but it sent another cloud of feathers into the air as those wicked claws slashed it to pieces. It gave Billie enough time to reach the door and draw her pistol.
There was a deafening bang as the door flew off its hinges and slammed into Billie, throwing her bodily across the room.
When she came to her senses, it took her a moment to realise why she wasn't dead. The clockwork sentinel and the stranger were locked in combat, the woman forced to use her stone-hardened hands to block as the machine thrust its long, scissor-like blades at her. They were in close enough quarters to see that it bore little resemblance to the machines she had encountered in Karnaca. The leering faceplate she had hated so much was gone. Instead of exposed cogs, the machine's moving parts were covered almost entirely with ugly armoured plating.
Despite her daze, Billie could tell the sentinel was winning. The stranger seemed to sense it too; she leapt for the wall into the shadow of a grandfather clock and fizzled away to nothing. A heartbeat later she reappeared by the door and darted through it. She hadn't accounted for the sentinel's rear optical lens - within seconds it was hot on her heels.
Shit, the stairs, Billie realised with horror. She'll alert everyone in this Void-damned house. Not to mention The Boy, who was downstairs, hardly expecting a six-foot-tall killing machine and a crazed woman who melted in and out of shadows to come crashing in.
Her pistol lay a couple of feet away. She scrabbled forward to grab it and heaved herself upright. Her muscles complained, but she made herself breathe deeply and ignored them, taking off after the pair.
The stranger was dodging this way and that to avoid the sentinel's wildly swinging blades. She toppled an ugly sculpture, which hit the marble with a crash. The sentinel stepped over it and kept advancing. Billie fired at it once, twice. The first shot glanced off its metal plating, the second scratched its optical lens as it turned towards her. It wouldn't stop it - Billie knew from experience that the things operated by sound alone if they had to. She would need to get much closer to do any serious damage.
She retreated towards the door to Rothwild's room, hoping to draw it back inside, but a hardened arm wrapped around her neck.
"I don't think so," said the stranger in her ear, in that infuriatingly sing-song tone. Billie thrust an elbow behind her and wrenched herself free. The sentinel was almost upon her, so she did the only thing she could do; she ran to the archway and flung herself into the room where she had found the fake plants.
The sentinel dogged her steps, lunging at her. She tried to sidestep but misjudged. The blade caught her flat-on, smashing her against the wall so hard it drove the air from her lungs. She fell into a plant, and red-hot pain lanced through her as the leaves bit into her flesh. She dropped like a stone, gasping, but the sentinel stumbled before it could finish her as the stranger leapt onto its back, seizing its rear-facing lens and tearing it from its armoured casing with the teeth-clenching shriek of rending metal.
"She's… mine!" she snarled. The sentinel apparently had a protocol for being ridden, as it charged backwards and slammed itself into the opposite wall. The stranger's grip was broken, shards of black stone pattering to the floor around her as she fell. Billie was in too much pain to do anything more than duck as the sentinel stabbed at her. Its blade tangled in the metallic plant. She sucked in a breath, wincing at the sharp pain that came with it.
"Had - enough - yet?" she panted,
"Not until you're dead!" shouted the stranger, scrambling upright and running at her, reaching for her with broken claws. Billie's pistol found its mark.
She pulled the trigger -
- the sentinel pulled itself free and lunged -
- the stranger faltered as the bullet pierced her arm -
- Billie leapt aside -
- and the woman let out a blood-curdling scream as the machine's blade punched into her chest, impaling her where she stood.
With an almost casual flick of its arm, the sentinel sent her broken body flying through the stained glass window. Blue-green glass exploded outwards, and screams rang out from the ballroom below. Billie's heart dropped into her shoes. Her chest heaved as she fought for air, her bruised ribs screaming at her. The sentinel's blades gleamed wickedly in the light, crimson blood pooling on the marbled floor.
"Come on," Billie snarled, and raised her pistol.