Chapter 3: Fill In the Blanks

27th of Month of High Cold, 1837

12:38 AM

Curnow rolls an unlit cigar in his fingers, listening to Attano's story and watching for tells. One of the first things he learned from his grandfather was behind every lie, there was a bit of truth. Sometimes it was a minor detail, like the time of day or what they wore. Others, it was a general theme. A good story teller would weave facts in to make it believable, but there was always something that slipped out they didn't mean to. That's why it's usually best to let a suspect talk and try to cover his tracks. If you can find that piece of truth, you have a strand to pick at and unravel.

In Attano's story, the most obvious is his feelings about those in it. Anyone he doesn't like is a villain, even the ones not part of the conspiracy. Sokolov, the arrogant elitist, Campbell, the hypocrite cult leader, and Burrows as the rat-faced bastard who took everything from him. The ones he likes, the victims of the story, he white washes into innocence. The Empress was a fair, beautiful, and just leader who died before her time. Her daughter is naïve and mischievous, a perfect child who didn't deserve her fate. And Corvo is the protector who, through no fault of his own, had everything taken from him. It's almost a perfect fairy tale. No gray area: only innocent and evil. Coldridge must've polarized Attano's views. Curnow's curious how he would be shown if he had a larger role.

That said, his story makes a certain amount of sense. The details that could be checked, the descriptions of the assassins and the gunfire from the 'fight,' line up nicely with what he knows. They also cater to the rumors he'd heard about Burrows. If there was anyone with the coin, influence, and know-how to arrange the assassination of the Empress, it was the Spymaster. Still lacking motive, but the fairy tale would be even harder to swallow if he admitted it to Attano before the murder.

Corvo takes a small break from his story to stretch in his chair. Fatigue grew on his face the longer he talked. It's never easy to recount the death of a loved one. Even if the gossip about the Lord Protector and the Empress was wrong, the pair was forced to spend an absurd amount of time together. Constant companionship like that either makes people dependent on or despise each other. Seeing her killed would hurt, especially if he couldn't stop it. Of course, Attano has been trained by some of the best spies in Serkonos and Gristol, so it's possible this is all a ploy to gain sympathy.

The Captain leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. He still doubts Attano is innocent, but the more they talk, the more opportunities he has to let something slip. "If you do manage to get your name cleared, you'll have to give my men some lessons," he comments. "I have a few that keep forgetting which side of the blade is sharp."

Attano smirks at one corner of his mouth. It's a convincing feign. "Give them better practice weapons. Injuries are great teachers."

"True. Explain something to me," Curnow says while matching eyes with the suspect. "The assassination happened six months ago. How is this the first time I've heard your version? Even the Watch at Coldridge didn't hear rumors like your story."

"Because I chose to survive, Geoff." Attano looks away to roll his left sleeve past the elbow. His pale skin is interrupted almost every inch by a dark, raised scar. On the forearm alone, Curnow counts three from small blades, five burns, and two that look like a hot cheese grater was dragged across. They're all fresh, no older than a year, and at least one was made in the last week.

He recognizes the signature. "The Royal Interrogator enjoyed your company," the Captain remarks. He'd seen enough suspects with loose tongues after the Regent's office 'borrowed' them for an interview.

"Burrows enjoyed it more," Attano says. He slides the sleeve back down. "He was present for half of the sessions. In the beginning, I screamed every chance I was given about the assassins. And each time, another hot brand or blade was used. After the fifth hour, I realized I was simply making it worse. I gave them only silence, never the confession they wanted."

Now that had to be true. Even with cut-and-dry cases, if aristocrats were involved, the Royal Interrogator was set loose on the suspect. The Regent wanted a confession every time so no one could claim the real killer wasn't caught. That would go double for the murder of the Empress. Even if it wasn't Corvo, he couldn't be allowed to spread rumors of assassins when the Regent himself caught him. His presence for the interrogations could be just that, or it could be Burrows did arrange her death. Probably the former.

"I'm surprised they ever let you out of the chair," Curnow thinks aloud. "Guess they knew it wouldn't be much better with the other prisoners."

Attano nods. "Especially with Burrows baiting them. Since I was a special circumstance, I was forced into the yard most hours of the day between my sessions with the Interrogator. He promised the gangs something, and they were more than willing to beat me for it. For the first month, confessing for a 'merciful execution' was tempting."

"I'm impressed, Corvo. Not many can survive that," the Captain admitted. Coldridge was reserved for the worst in Gristol: only those with a high body count or powerful enemies ended up there. Most don't last long, even without special attention. It takes a tough bastard to endure that kind of torture.

"I had motivation," the former Lord Protector says, determination in his tone. "Emily is still missing, and Jessamine's killer is out there. I promised her I would fix this. It will take more than a few thugs and cattle brands to stop me."

The Captain takes it all in, rolling the cigar in his fingers again. Attano has to be telling the truth about Coldridge. Even without what he knows, none of his tells are there. There was enough anger in him that he wouldn't be able to conceal a lie, not well. Since his right eyebrow hasn't twitched, and he hasn't picked at the mark on his left hand, Curnow knew he was telling the truth. That being said…

"You didn't have that tattoo when we traveled together," he notes. He'd never seen a tattoo with such clean lines and color before, and the ink seemed fresh. Not even the professionals in Gristol could manage that.

"You're right," Attano says. He itches at the bottom of the mark, then displays it. The strange symbol almost resembles a compass. There's a small circle at the center, with three arcing lines above it that end in points. Something like clock hands form a diagonal through the symbol and around the middle circle. Even with the other lines to the side, a compass is the easiest comparison. "I can thank the Overseers for this. It is supposed to symbolize my 'unholy collaboration with the Outsider.' It was a hot brand, but I have not figured out where the ink came from. Whatever it was, it still itches."

His right brow twitched when he mentioned the Overseers, but no other tells. Maybe the Interrogator gave it to him, or the Regent himself. But it wasn't the Abbey, that much is certain. It's an odd thing to lie about. Curnow makes a note of it, in case he sees a way to exploit the inaccuracy later. "The Abbey does love its rituals. I have a hard time believing you took that kind of punishment for six months. Did the gangs ever ease up?"

"Not until I made them. I spent enough time in the Serkonan Grand Guard to understand gang hierarchy. I made the enforcers tell me who the major players were. Then, I encouraged the lieutenants into arranging a meeting between myself and their bosses. After a few broken joints and negotiations, they mostly left me alone. I still had to be beaten occasionally so Burrows thought the gangs were in his pocket, but it was manageable. Fights became a weekly occurrence, rather than hourly." Attano looks to the wine glasses, then back at the Captain. "I suppose calling a servant for water is out of the question."

"Unless you can get Campbell to ask for you," Curnow jokes half-heartedly. What he said about the gangs is concerning. Or rather, how he said it. Violence is the only way he could've survived Coldridge, that's a given. But he waged war with some of the worst criminals in Gristol, every one of them after the bounty on his head, and he described it like it was the weather. Attano had become even more pragmatic than he was before he went in. He'd have no problem crippling someone if it came down to it. That's bad news for anyone that gets in his way. Especially if it's one of his guardsmen.

Trying to calm himself, Curnow fishes out a small canteen from a pouch at his hip. It also holds spare rounds for his pistol, but no point in telling Attano that. He takes a sip, then offers to the intruder.

"Thank you," Corvo says graciously. He almost drains all of the water in a long pull, gasping quietly at the end. "I forgot you always carry that."

The Captain takes it back and makes sure the lid is on tight before pocketing it again. "Old habits die hard. I'm trying to make my men do it, but they're stubborn."

"It is smart. Harder to be drugged or poisoned if you refuse drinks from others. I would normally be wary of yours, but I doubt you expected this tonight." Attano leans back in chair again, stretching his arms above his head.

Curnow weighs his options. Less than three meters between them, weapons out of easy reach for the Lord Protector. He could tackle him to the floor now while yelling for back-up. The Overseers and Watch officers would be in this room instantly. He could probably restrain Attano long enough to keep him from pulling the sword or bow at his hip: the cloak might even get in the way. It could be over in a minute, no bloodshed.

But if he couldn't hold him, they would all be dead. The noise would bring in the others, himself already bleeding out from a hole in his neck. Attano was faster than anything they'd faced, and he'd cut them down instantly. One might be able to yell, but that would be it. Then he'd be out the open window, Campbell either dead as well or carried out over his shoulder. The Overseers would know it was an assassin, nothing else. Attano would be gone, free to continue his plan, whatever that is.

He decides it's not worth the risk and relaxes into his chair. He'll have to wait for a better opportunity. Maybe his men will come in on their own, wondering what's taking the meeting so long. Or maybe Attano will adjust his belt and drop a weapon by accident. His chances were slim, but they were better than the ones he faced now.

The Lord Protector finishes his stretch and brings his eyes back to Curnow. The corner of his mouth pulls back into a slight smile. Attano wasn't stupid: that was a test. He wanted to know Curnow wouldn't try anything. He was expecting the attack, and would've been prepared to counter it. So he made the right decision. It wasn't much of a comfort, but it was something.

"I have one more question, then you can continue your story," Curnow says, trying to move things along. "What are your plans for Campbell? I'm assuming since he's still alive, you have something special in mind."

"If you are worried I will kill him, no. I have something… poetic in mind," he admits vaguely.

Curnow laughs quietly. "I assumed. Unconscious and dead bodies weigh the same. If you wanted him dead, you'd do it now and not risk him waking up."

"Unless I wanted him to see it coming and could not do that with you in the room." Attano's practicality is becoming more concerning. "Have you ever heard of the Heretic's Brand?"

"No, but it doesn't sound pleasant."

"I doubt it is. It belongs to the Overseers, something reserved for members that break the Strictures, but cannot be punished because of technicalities. Anyone with the mark on their face is to be shunned by all members of the Abbey, Overseers and civilians alike. He is to be denied food, coin, everything. All of Gristol must shun whoever bears the brand, and it is very hard to hide. A fate worse than death." The Lord Protector is proud of himself for this. Admittedly, it is an ingenious punishment.

"Remind me to stay on your good side, Attano," Curnow mutters. "I assume you have some other reason for wanting him to suffer, other than helping arrest you and trying to kill me."

The intruder shrugs. "I need to know what he knows, and I need him out of the way so he cannot help Burrows. This way, he gets to suffer without dying, I get what I need, and the Overseers do not have to explain what happened to their leader: they say he was branded and they find a new one. It works better for everyone."

It was hard to argue with. Even if the Overseers didn't know how Campbell got branded, it wouldn't save him from exile. They wouldn't bother with questions before throwing him into the rain. Rituals like this have been engrained into them so thoroughly, no one will argue. And no one will question the Overseers about matters of religious punishment. There will be some debate about his public denouncing, but no one will yell too loudly. It actually is cleaner than killing him.

The part about needing information is interesting. What could Campbell know that Attano doesn't? He wouldn't go through all of this unless it was important. It could be something on Burrows, but that doesn't track. He wouldn't care about the Regent's politics or allies: he likely knows most of them already. And if his story about assassination is true, there's no way Burrows would've told Campbell anything about Daud. The Spymaster was a firm believer that the only way secrets could be kept was if the others who knew it were dead. So what could it be… information about Emily, maybe? If Attano believed they were allied and framed him, he might think Campbell knows something about where she was. Maybe that's it.

Either the former Lord Protector is actually right about a conspiracy, or he believes his own story. Listening to the rest of the tale is the smartest move regardless. If he has gone crazy, knowing what's going on in his head may be the only way to get ahead of him. If he's right, there's a chance he'll let something slip that can be investigated.

So Curnow leans back in his chair, repositioning the unlit cigar between his trigger and middle fingers. Ready to roll the old piece of tobacco and cloth, he waves theatrically to the story teller. Attano gets comfortable before beginning again.

I know, shorter chapter than usual. Sorry, minions. But don't worry: I've already gotten the next chapter drafted out, and it's closer to my usual length. So hopefully, it'll be out sooner rather than later. And I'm curious to see, when I get it out, if you all catch on to the little... oddity, let's call it. ~MGA