Chapter 6: Meet the Crew

25th of the Month of High Cold, 1837

4:17 PM

I tried to sleep during the long ride to Ishmael's friends, but it never happened. Even after the adrenaline left and my body ached, my mind's racing kept me up. Who were these people? Why did they risk their necks to free me? Did they want to exact their own justice for Jessamine's murder? Or was this some elaborate get-rich scheme, freeing a prisoner just to hand him back to the Regent for a reward? Each answer I could think of was more ludicrous than the last, but they kept me awake.

Of course, it wasn't like I had the best seat in the theatre. Being a wanted man, I had to hide in the tiny boat. Ishmael provided a tarp for me to lie under, which concealed all but my eyes keeping watch over the water. I pretended to be his fishing equipment, never moving while he never acknowledged me. Eyebrows would be raised if a sailor was seen speaking to his tools. Between the cramped position, rampant thoughts in my head, and horrid rocking of the puny vessel, it was not a comfortable trip.

But eventually, we drew near our destination. Slaughterhouse Row has a distinct atmosphere: the stench of whale oil, mixed with a horrid cacophony of screaming leviathans and machinery. A decommissioned whaling ship sat at the pier we sailed toward. The buildings around were all condemned, warning signs of the plague across each door. No one could find this place by accident, other than maybe a drunken butcher. Perfect for a conspiracy and its fugitive.

"We're right under the Lord Regent's nose, and he don't know a thing," Ishmael says as we drift towards the vessel. "Of course, if anyone finds out what we're up to, the Watch will break in with swords drawn."

I take it as a sign to shrug off the tarp and sit up. "Tyrants rarely let their opposition off lightly."

He laughs. "But with you gone, he'll be tearing the city apart. We'd best work fast: I'm rather fond of my head where it is."

The miniscule boat clanks into the side of its larger counterpart. There's a small door carved into the hull, a second-hand addition likely put in by smugglers when they owned the craft. As Ishmael ties us in, I push on the entrance. We're at the bottom of the cargo bay, from the looks of it.

A child's attack interrupts my first step. Girl, thirteen, fish knife in her left. She catches me flat footed, but not enough to land the slash. I slip past the blade and push her onto Ishmael's boat. Face first, she falls to the floor of his craft and drops the weapon. The sailor picks it up for her. "Easy, Riley. It's us."

She groans, lightly banging her forehead on the deck. "You forgot to knock."

"Our guest opened the door before I could." He helps her to her feet. "Corvo, this is Riley. She's our gatekeeper and ear to the street."

"Someone's got to do it, and there's no way Lord Frills will." Despite the thick layer of grime covering it, her wild blonde hair matches the Morley accent. Not surprising: homeless or not, it's hard to contain the spirit that comes with Morley blood.

"You are qualified for the job. Few have gotten the drop on me," I compliment earnestly. "Reverse your grip on the knife, so that the dull edge runs along your arm. It makes you harder to disarm."

"Like I'd listen to a Serkonan loser," she scoffs, then laughs. "Nice to meet you."

Ishmael pats her head with a chuckle. "She comes off strong, but you get used to her. Riley's an unofficial Loyalist. Found us last month looking for a place to sleep, promised she wouldn't tell anyone if she could enjoy the chow. Only person I've seen intimidate the Captain and win."

I like her already. "A pleasure. If you do not mind, I would like to eat before we become acquainted. I trust we will see more of each other?"

"Long as you get a bath first. I'm going before the flies follow me." Sporting a mischievous grin, she slips past me and deeper into the ship.

"Do I smell that bad?" I ask Ishmael.

"Have I shaken your hand yet?" he responds. "Iseult can draw you a bath after you meet the Captain. If anyone can help you find Lady Emily and clear your name, it's him."

I follow Ishmael up the stairs, my sense of direction getting lost through the myriad of turns. Our path is well lit, thanks to small lights every few feet of the corridor. Electric, likely running on whale oil. Our steps clank loudly on the metal floor, but there is little echo. The residents have insulated their home. Smart.

Eventually, we come to the bridge-turned-study. A desk sits in the corner, covered in maps, rough sketches, and an oak cane. Behind it, in a worn chair, sits an equally weathered man in his sixties. His old naval uniform fits well, and remains in immaculate shape despite its age. The salt-and-pepper mess of hair shows he hasn't been in the service for years, but the dark eyes hint that his mind is still up to the task. I wonder which part of his body failed him, forcing the captain to retire.

His companion, a clean-cut noble in a dark green suit, looks me over with surprise. From the styled black hair to the polished shoes, a casual observer could guess his type. Lord Udina has not aged well in the year since we last met. Worry lines decorate his face, many more than his expensive makeup can conceal. Whatever caused that rapid aging may be what pushed him to join these conspirators. The man I remember from Parliament was far too cowardly to oppose the Regent.

The eldest member stands up, a warm smile on his face. "The man of the hour is here. Lord Corvo, I'm Captain Anderson, a true servant of the empire, like you. Until the Lord Regent purged those of us who wouldn't recognize his claim to the throne."

Before I address the aristocrat, I give the dark-skinned officer a cordial shake. "You don't need to introduce yourself, Udina. It is a surprise to see you here, though."

He frowns, then quickly hides it. "I represent the nobility of our little group, but we all act as equals on the Nostromo. To remove the Lord Regent from power, we must attack him from the shadows and the parliament chamber. That is where I come in."

"This is a momentous occasion, Corvo," Anderson says. "I'm going to come out with it: we've been building a coalition of Loyalists, aimed at ending the Lord Regent's tyranny and restoring the throne."

"At the risk of execution, we're committed to finding young Lady Emily and seeing her crowned as Empress," Udina adds. Off-hand compliments for himself. Not unusual.

"We've got big plans, but we can't do any of it without you. We need your skills, your ability in a fight. And in helping us, we're going to help you destroy the men who murdered the Empress," the Captain finishes.

"I enjoy the plan so far," I admit. "The part that prevented my execution was welcome."

"I'm sorry it took so long to rescue you," Anderson apologizes. "It took time to come up with a plan, then to put all of the pieces in motion."

I nod. "Hopefully you've realized that we cannot simply show up with Emily and place her on the throne. Burrows has established his power too well: we would be executed, and Emily would just be a tool to strengthen his regime."

"But we don't know where she is, not exactly. We believe he has her hidden somewhere, keeping her stashed away until he can bring her out at a time most beneficial to him," Udina explains.

"He 'finds' her, executes some poor fools that he says are responsible, and becomes a hero. Then, claiming that she is unfit to rule, he keeps the throne even longer," I think aloud. "We have to find Emily first, then we dismantle his support. If Burrows senses the rug being pulled out from under him, he might panic. I will not put Emily at risk."

"I think we can take both of those birds with one bullet," Anderson says. "It never made sense that you were the one to kill the Empress: it was the Regent and his supporters. That means he arranged for Emily's capture. One of his men must know where she is being kept."

Udina steps forward. "We've been working under the assumption that Campbell knows her location. He was far too supportive of Burrows when he claimed the Regent position. He's been known to have shady dealings in the past, and to keep dirt on his bed fellows. If he doesn't have her, he knows who does."

"Written in the little black book he never lets out of his sight," I finish for him. This time, it's the Captain surprised. "My job was to protect Jessamine. Questionable allies usually benefit the most from an untimely death."

Anderson recovers quickly. "Then Campbell is our first target. With him dead, the Regent no longer has the support of the Abbey, and we will get back Lady Emily."

"If Ishmael can get me within walking distance, I will handle the rest. Is there a change of clothes I can borrow?" I ask.

The politician puts his hands up. "Not tonight. The High Overseer is meeting with the Regent, and with news of your escape, no doubt they have extra security on hand."

"Udina's right," Anderson adds. "Tomorrow evening will be better. The panic will have subsided, leaving him vulnerable. And he will be in the Abbey, away from civilians and the Watch. Rest tonight, gather your strength. You must be exhausted"

He's not wrong. Half of the city is on the lookout for me. If they don't see me by tomorrow, they'll assume I have gone into hiding. They will be checking the Flooded District and Draper's Ward, not Clavering Boulevard. I can contain myself until then, and hopefully learn more about my companions in the meantime. "My request for clothes still stands. A warm bath and meal would also be welcome. Coldridge did not provide much of either. And, as you said, I must gather my strength."

My hosts grow smiles. "Excellent," Udina says. "Iseult will draw you a bath down below, and Tristan will prepare your meal. Do you have any preferences?"

"The strongest soap you have without perfumes, and anything other than moldy bread. Is there anyone else in your group I must meet, not counting the small blonde who attempted to stab me?"

Anderson answers first. "Tristan and Iseult are Udina's servants: you'll meet them soon enough. Elizabeth is around here somewhere, likely writing a lesson plan for Lady Emily when we find her. She was a matron servant for Lord Shaw's children years ago, and should be more than qualified to watch over her while she is in our care. The only other member we have is Leonardo. You can meet the creator of your equipment after you eat. I'm sure he'll want your input on his designs."

The politician walks to the intercom on the wall, thumbing the button on the bottom. "Iseult, Lord Attano has arrived. Please draw him a bath, soap without perfumes. Fetch him fresh clothes as well, and tell Tristan to have a meal ready for our guest after he has cleaned up."

"Yes, sir," the small electronic immediately answers. "Elizabeth will be up in a minute to escort him."

"Very good." Udina smiles and turns back to me. At least he's somewhat polite to his servants.

I let my curiosity take control for a moment, see what the Captain's feathers look like when ruffled. "May I ask what made you unfit for duty, Anderson? You've obviously been out longer than the Regent was in."

If the comment insulted him, his face doesn't show it. Instead, he grabs the cane and stands. His hobble around the table reveals the injury a moment before he shows. The left leg has been removed entirely, a polished wooden peg replacing it. "We took fire off the coast of Tyvia while trying to root out their pirate problem. One of their cannons got lucky, took my knee clean off. The only way our corpsman could save me from infection was to take the rest of my leg. I was retired from active service, but kept on as a consultant from time to time. Enough to keep me busy, until the Regent took charge."

"A shame. There's always a need for experienced, able-bodied sailors."

And again, minimal reaction to the insult. Must be used to the situation, accepted what he can never be again. Or knows when someone's trying to get his hair up and won't give them the pleasure. "But my mind is sharp as ever. We'll need it for what's ahead. I'll leave the 'able-bodied' work to you."

The maid arrives quietly, slipping into the room with practiced subtlety. Her hair has more grey than the Captain's, tied back into a bun that matches her simple dress and shoes. "Are you ready for your bath, Lord Protector?"

"Yes, madam," I say before nodding to the men of the room. "If you would excuse me."

Anderson says, "Please, don't let us keep you. Rest while you have the chance. We'll be very busy soon."

None of them follow as Elizabeth leads down into the ship once again. The path we take is longer than the one Ishmael and I used to reach the bridge, but includes far less turns. It is enough that I can roughly tell where the bathing room is once we arrive. Two floors above the cargo hold, three below the bridge, and maybe ten meters from the bow. It is enough I have an estimated escape route from my companions, in case our partnership sours.

A younger servant rises from the edge of the tub as we enter the bathroom. She dries her arm on a towel, smiling at me. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Corvo."

"His title is 'Lord Protector,' Iseult. Please remember it," Elizabeth scolds. Her experience with nobility shows.

I try to set them at ease. "'Corvo' is fine. I have not been called my title in some time."

"Nonsense," the elder scoffs. "You merit respect, my lord: the least we can do is refer to you properly."

"As you wish, ma'am." There no point in arguing further with such a woman. Some have had politeness so ingrained into them, it is impossible for them to turn it off.

Iseult walks toward myself and the door, her loose red hair falling to her shoulders. "There is a fresh towel and pajamas for you in the chair, Lord Protector. Are there any other items you require?"

"Is the vanity stocked with scissors and a razor?" I ask, looking towards the dressing table and hygiene products on its shelf. If the brush holds and the nail trimmers are sharp, the essentials are covered.

She nods. "Yes, sir. And soap has already been mixed with your water."

"Then it is perfect. Thank you, both of you."

The maids smile, bowing their heads as they exit the room.

As I unbutton my shirt, a question comes to mind. "Excuse me," I shout, before they can get far.

Iseult, who barely made it past the door, pokes her head back in. "Yes, my lord?"

"If you are not too busy, could I request your company for dinner? Ishmael did not speak much during our trip, so I know almost nothing of the Loyalists. And it has been some time since I had pleasant conversation."

She smiles softly. "Yes, I can do that. After you are done, just shout, and I will talk as much as you like." With another quick bow, she disappears before I can thank her. I shrug the last of my clothing to the floor and climb into the bath.

The sewer's runoff oozes from my skin under the painfully hot water, as well as six months of grime and blood. Black wisps drift from my legs to contaminate the clear liquid and suds immediately. Ignoring that, I dunk my head beneath the surface. My hair quickly regains its original wiry texture while its contaminants float away. I feel almost human when I rise for air. I can hardly suppress a smile as I reach for the loofah and begin to scrub the remaining dirt off.

It takes ten minutes to see my skin again, revealing how pale and thin I grew in Coldridge. I step out of the now dark water and run the towel over my features. The multitude of scars I carry are more pronounced than usual, both new and old. So are the pair of tattoos on my chest, but I try to ignore them. They carry memories I don't wish to dwell on today. The clothes provided to me are a light button shirt, dark dress pants, and bedroom slippers. They are roughly my size and cleaner than the Watch uniform, so I my complaints are minimal.

The mirror reveals how unkempt the past months made me. Even with the bath, I could be mistaken for a beggar. The rough beard, rat's nest of hair, and dagger nails I sport are almost horrific. Not that I could do much about it at the time. I wonder if Jessamine could recognize me if she saw me like this.

I cut away the brush on my face with a straight edge razor, careful to not nick myself. The blade is meant to be used by a barber, but I make due. After that's clean, I trim the rest of my hair to my shoulders once again. My lack of experience shows in the results, uneven and barely passable. All that remains is to trim my nails, and I resemble a normal citizen once again. If the Watch's posters of my bounty are recent, they may not resemble me. I keep my pouch of ammo, storing the sword in my hip pocket and crossbow on a belt loop.

I peer into the hallway and spot Iseult walking this way. "Your meal is almost ready, my lord," she announces pleasantly. "You look much better now. Was your bath satisfactory?"

"I fear my water may kill hagfish if we pour it into the river. Is Tristan a good cook?"

She waves her hand, leading me deeper into the ship. "He knows his way around Serkonan spices better than any of us."

"Do not set my expectations too high. Blood sausage is hard to find, and even harder to perfect," I jest. We reach the galley a level below the bathroom, a small window showing the ocean view off the ship's stern. The room is meant to hold a crew of at least twenty, making the three of us feel very small. Tristan is younger than all but Elizabeth, a portly man with impeccable taste. While his employer sports fancier labels and fabrics, this man's clothes are tailored to his exact size. His clean-cut hair makes him the most well-kept of us all.

"Ah, my guest has arrived. It's a pleasure, my lord," he greets with a bow. "Your meal will be ready in a moment. I need only retrieve it from the stove."

I compliment honestly, "I thought something smelled wonderful. Aren't you worried about the odor giving us away?"

"The captain gave me the same warning. This is a special occasion, something I'm only allowed to do once. After this, nothing so extravagant will be allowed. We have been here some time: we know how to be careful." After sliding mitts onto his hands, he retrieves a skillet from the top of the stove, then a pan from within.

I drift towards the place set obviously for me, a comfortable chair and silverware arranged at the table closest to the kitchen. Assorted fruits, drinks, and desserts surround a large empty plate that begs to be filled. Tristan comes over with deliciously scented blood sausage in his right and a Morley apple pie in the other. "Am I a VIP?" I ask, trying to ignore my growling stomach.

"Mostly to me," he laughs, sliding a generous helping of meat to my plate. "It's not often I get to cook for a fellow native of Serkonos."

I concede to my hunger and start eating as fast as my mouth and silverware will allow. The salty taste of brined hagfish becomes a distant memory, replaced by succulent sausage and grapes. The sounds of the servants quietly laughing is background noise, something to be ignored. Damn civilities and etiquette. There is only so long a man can live on brackish fish and moldy bread before his body rages for real food. Especially some spiced and juicy.

After I get through the first half of the meal, I pause to take a long drink of clean water. The Tyivian red is tempting, as is the Dunwall whiskey, but I abstain. My mind needs to be clear, and my body needs fluids more than alcohol. "What city are you from, Tristan?" I ask, putting down the cup. If I talk, I am forced to eat at a somewhat normal pace.

"Bastillian," he smiles. He takes a seat, sipping at his own wine. "The Horizon Trading Company hired me to feed their sailors on the sea. Lord Udina paid a visit to purchase some figs directly from the source. He fell in love with my cooking and offered me a position as his personal chef. Though since joining the Loyalists, I've had to cook in greater quantities."

"Umph," I mutter through a mouthful of apple before swallowing. "Karnaca. Won a sword competition, commissioned into the Grand Guard, then given to Dunwall as a gift. Doubt they would have if they realized Jessamine would pick me as her Lord Protector."

"No, likely Theodanis would have kept you as a personal guard. Or for his brat of a son."

I consider reminding him of the younger child, Radanis, but stop. He died well before I joined the Guard anyway. "Likely. So how long has this… conspiracy been formed, exactly?"

"Roughly three months, I believe?" Iseult says, doubting herself. "The captain, Lord Udina, and Ishmael met in a bar, drinking to the failing health of Dunwall. The way Udina tells it, this was all his idea."

"Of course," I nod.

"It was usual bar talk, saying how much better the city would be if Lady Emily were ruling the Empire. They said she would at least unite everyone, give them hope instead of crushing them. The Regent has everyone afraid, to work, to try, to live. And with most of the Empress' advisors gone or executed, the only ones that still have any power say, 'yes,' to the Regent, afraid of what would happen if they don't. That's what Ishmael thinks, at least," Tristan fills in.

The details of that recollection feel practiced. "That's rather specific," I comment.

The cook shrugs. "Lord Udina brought us that night, to prepare his food and drink. He doesn't trust anyone else."

"Anderson talked about how easy it would be to bring down the Regent. He could pick out who had the power out of the group. 'If we killed these two and promoted this one, he would lose the Abbey,' things like that," Iseult continues. "And he always defended you, Corvo. He said over and over that there was no way you killed the Empress and kidnapped her daughter. He said you had honor, even if you were from Serkonos. No offense, my lord."

"None taken." I peel a plantar and lean back in my chair. "They all believe I am innocent? And they want to put Emily back on the throne to try saving the city? Nothing else?"

"Ishmael, definitely," Tristan says. "He hates Dunwall and the nobility, but he can't stand to watch it decay like it has. I think Anderson wants a purpose. He needs a mission in life."

Iseult grows a slight frown. "Not to speak ill of our Lord, but Udina is hoping to benefit from this in the end. He wants to help, I know it, but he wants to be better off when this is over. If the Regent falls, and he supports the new Empress…"

"He hopes he'll take one of the newly vacant positions at her side," I finish. Udina's a coward, but he hides a certain cleverness. At least he's on the right side of the fight.

Finishing the last of the sausage, I look over my companions. My Spymaster skills have served me well, especially in Coldridge, to pick out liars. As best I can tell, they are telling the truth. There's still a chance I'm wrong, as well as they don't know what's truly happening here. But it's probably the clearest picture I'm going to get of the conspirators for now. An idealistic sailor, a power hungry noble, a driven navy captain, and some servants roped in for good measure. It's a starting point, at least. I'll decide how much to trust them later. For now, I'll be polite while keeping my back to the door.

My stomach gurgles, full and content. Less than half of the initial food remains, which is more than I expected to eat. I stand from my chair and stretch. "Thank you both, especially for the wonderful meal, Tristan," I say. "But I really should meet with Leonardo about my equipment and retire for the evening. The captain warns me I have a long day ahead of me."

Tristan stands and bows. "The pleasure is all mine, sir. I will be sure to save your food for later, provided the little one doesn't run off with it again."

I give him a nod as Iseult stands. "My lord, if you will follow me. Hopefully Leonardo is expecting us this time."

"Dare I ask what happened when he was surprised?" I ask.

"I startled him at his drill press. His nail has grown back."

We go back down to a small room just off the cargo hold. The sound of a hammer strikes guide me as much as Iseult does, as well as the scent of something burned. The famed Leonardo faces his work table, carefully tapping his mallet to the end of a chisel when we arrive. The man has the build of a miner, thick arms on display with his sleeveless shirt. Perhaps a welder, or mechanic. Regardless, his prior profession gave him a bulk that would make most think twice about crossing him.

When he sets the hammer down, Iseult knocks on the door frame. "I've brought Lord Corvo for you," she announces politely.

The man turns and startles me. His face hardly matches the rest of him: young, delicate features that belong on a man of academia. The thin glasses on the end of his nose only solidify the assumption. From the neck up, a man of letters and science. Below, someone no stranger to hard labor. I wonder what his parents looked like.

He smiles gently. "Lord Protector, welcome. Pleasure to meet you. Heard great things. Glad you escaped Coldridge, hope my equipment helped." His words are quick, articulate with no breaths between any of them. Maybe I should have taken coffee with my dinner, if only to keep up.

I nod. "That it did. Several guards will go home tonight, thanks to your crossbow and darts."

"Ah, wonderful. Wasn't sure the serum I made was potent enough. Too strong, guard stops breathing. Everything still a prototype now, always room for improvement." He waves me over. "Come, please. Must show you latest project, hopefully a great asset to you."

He picks up what he was working on as I approach. A dark metal mask stares back at me with glass eyes, the wire teeth and red fabric beneath almost intimidating. The covering looks rough and cobbled together. The parts were likely scavenged, and he had to make do with what he could. At least it doesn't shine in the light. "Impressive." I don't add, "if impractical."

"Your status is a difficult one. All the city knows your face, on the lookout, ready to report and capture you again. This will keep them from identifying you, hopefully scare them from calling the Watch. Should you be detected, of course. Rumors say you are very stealthy. Try it on."

I take the mask in hand, surprised by how light it is. It feels durable, almost as strong as a Watch sword, but half of the weight. I slip it onto my face and feel for something to secure it. Leonardo pushes my hand away, taking a small screw driver to a piece near my temple. "No straps. Just this. Straps fail, or can be pulled off. This, not so much."

I feel pressure on either side of my head, roughly where glasses would sit if I were wearing them. It never grows strong enough to hurt, but it's secure. The glasses over the eyes finally line up with my vision, where I can mostly see through them. But the picture is still fuzzy. "The lenses are out of focus, I think. Everything is blurry."

"Had a feeling. Ignored instinct. My mistake. Hold still." The inventor takes the dull side of the driver and smacks the mask right above my eye socket. He ignores my grunt, pulls on something, then rotates a nob just out of my vision. It only takes a moment for everything to become clear again.

"Much better," I say. He stops twisting whatever it was, then hits my mask again. "Did I piss you off or something?"

He seems genuinely concerned. "What? No! Mask stubborn, made from inferior, stolen metals. Must be forceful with it to correct mistakes. Apologies for the discomfort. Not used to someone wearing it while I'm working."

I rotate my head and neck, trying to adjust to the new weight. No obvious gaps in my vision, and it's light enough that it doesn't particularly bother me. Though a masquerade mask could have sufficed, the craftsmanship is rather extraordinary. "None needed. It fits well, and for a metal mask, it's not heavy."

"Necessary compromise. Had to make it intimidating, feathers and wood not suitable. But comes with helpful addition. Press the button under your right eye."

When I do, the vision on my right side becomes nothing but the inventor's face. The man managed to cram a small telescope into the eyepiece. That can be handy, especially if the crossbow can shoot as well as I hope. "Now that is useful. Thank you, Leonardo."

"None needed. Pleasure, enjoyed the challenge. Would you like me to work on something else for you? Must be something you noticed with the equipment, some room for improvement." He stares at me with a child's enthusiasm. Curious one.

I rack my brain and come up with two areas for improvement. "A more efficient reload for the crossbow, if you could. Or maybe a way to have more than one bolt ready to fire in succession. And something more useful to carry equipment than this pouch. I may need more bullets, bolts, or coin than this can hold."

He catches the crossbow and ammo sack I toss his way. Immediately, the wheels in his head start turning. "Definitely. Surprised I didn't think of that before. Will start working on that now. Hopefully have solutions in the morning. Sleep well, Lord Protector."

I turn to leave the room as Leonardo returns to his work. Iseult has a small grin on her face. "Yes, he's always like that," she jokes, reading my mind.

"Maybe you should keep him away from the coffee?" I offer, sliding the mask off.

"We do. Riley thinks if he drinks any, his head will explode."

"… Probably."

The servant leads me back upstairs, just behind the bridge. If I had to guess, my room is a repurposed supply room. Scratches where shelves used to be give the floor character, while the bed and dresser hardly match the décor. A sealed window faces the city, large enough for me to escape through after shattering the aged glass. It doesn't seem leaky or drafty, and I'm afforded relative privacy.

"The captain thought you would like to sleep alone once you arrived," Iseult explains. "He thought it would be preferable to staying with the rest of us down in the hold."

I nod, running my hand over the folded sheets of my bed. Plain colors, but incredibly soft to the touch. Udina's guest sheets, more than likely. My status is probably lower than those who usually rest in them. "I appreciate it. With all due respect, I hardly trust any of you enough to sleep near you."

I see her nod out of the corner of my eye, then approach the dresser. The first drawer contains some hygiene essentials: brushes for hair and teeth, a canteen of water, floss, a pot for pissing in. "Please let me know if you find any of this lacking, my lord," she reminds me.

The linens feel foreign in my hands as I spread them across my cot. They're too soft, delicate for my flesh to meet. I spend too much time with blades and weapons in my hands, hard objects meant to kill. Gentle things never feel quite right in my touch. Jessamine never understood why I resisted touching her flowers. "I will," I answer half-heartedly.

She ignores my strangeness and continues her display. The second drawer holds three pairs of dark boots and a dozen black socks, all roughly my size. I stop dressing my bed long enough to slip the middle pair on to test. A snug, comfortable fit. The soles hardly clank on the metal floor unless I stomp. Good. If I watch my step, few will hear my approach.

The third and final container holds two outfits, almost identical. Each consist of a dark blue hooded coat, pants, and shirt with clean stitching and buttons. The hard lines of the clothes are hidden well, almost blurring the shape of the wearer. Each item has an assortment of small pockets that can hold coin, grenades, or wicked springrazors. A single black bandoleer divides the pair, ready to be worn across the chest of either. The craftsmanship in each ensemble is clear, nearly flawless. If anything, it mimics my uniform from my Lord Protector days. Dark, comfortable, and ready for a fight if needed.

"Was it Leonardo or another of you who created these?" I ask, taking the left ensemble out to try on. It will be useless if it doesn't fit my new slender frame.

"Leonardo gave me some designs to start with," she answers modestly. As I start to slip off my shirt, she turns away. "He showed me how to conceal extra pockets and make it more durable. I tried to keep it close to what you were used to. Riley said I needed to make it smaller than your old clothes. She has friends who've been to prison, said they always lost weight. I did my best."

"Clearly. Your stitching is better than what I saw on Draper's Ward," I compliment. While the pant legs are slightly loose, the waist and length fit well. The shirt and coat sit well on me, hugging without constricting my movement. After the entire ensemble is on, I walk in front of her to show my enthusiasm for it.

She smiles when she sees her work paid off. "Perfect, my lord. I must thank Riley for her advice."

"Enjoy some of the credit yourself. You earned it." I walk back to the bed and start to remove the boots again. The outfit is perfect infiltrating the Abbey. Less so for sleeping.

"Will that be all, my lord?" she asks, watching me undress with slight confusion.

"Two requests, if Udina could spare you a little longer," I say politely. "First, I assume your employer brought one of his audiograph players with him. I would like to borrow one for the evening, with music to play while I try to sleep. Something composed by Licht would be wonderful, but anything orchestral we have on hand is fine. And a few feet of black necklace cord, please."

She nods with a smile. "I believe we have some of that lying around. It will just be a moment."

She is off on my scavenger hunt before I completely undress. I fold my outfit back up for the drawer, then put my sleepwear back on. As I slide my shirt back on, I hear Tristan and Riley approaching. Riley's complaining gives her away more than her footsteps. The pair carry the bulky audiograph into the room, barely dodge the lip at the door, and set the heavy mechanism on my dresser.

"You owe me, Smelly," the child chastises. Tristan seems to have a comment waiting on his lips, but bites his tongue. Probably fears retribution from the small one.

Iseult appears a few seconds later, a spool of cord in her hands. "As you requested," she says and hands me the string.

I take it and nod to all present. "Thank you, all of you, for being such gracious hosts."

"It is no trouble at all, sir," Tristan says with a bow, ducking out of the room.

"Bring me something shiny, we'll call it even," the spitfire chuckles before taking her leave.

Iseult gives me a small smile. "Sleep well, Lord Corvo." She shuts the door behind her, leaving me alone.

I examine the player for its controls in silent contemplation. This model is newer than what we have in the Tower, but I recognize the buttons easily enough. The card at the top starts to dance, and music builds from the hidden speakers. A quiet orchestra takes their time building a familiar intro. I smile and close my eyes. Licht avoided singers, instead using instruments to convey emotions rather than words. It's amazing how he could use a violin or piano to bring an audience to tears. Jessamine would imagine a story for each song, make them personal. Slow pieces would be about inseparable lovers, while overtures detailed soldiers in a race to conquer evil. This one she said was about peace. Someone lying in bed during a quiet evening, content with their life and wanting nothing more…

Using the folding blade, I cut roughly two feet of cable out to work with. Then I take the ring from my chain, and slide it to the center of the cord. My fingers make a small knot to secure it in place, then two slipknots that form a loop. It's the perfect size to get around my head, and once I tighten it, it should sit an inch or so below my neck. Should be comfortable, though I doubt I'll forget it's there.

For now, I wrap the length of it around my wrist until the pendant ends up in my palm. The ring feels cool, comfortable in my grip while I pull the sheets over me. The familiar insignia brings me a touch of solace as my fingers rub the face of it. I close my eyes and try to shut all out but the music and ring. If I focus hard enough, I may be able to forget she's gone. Or maybe the Void will let her visit, if only to hear me apologize.

"I'm sorry, Jessamine," I whisper, praying she's listening. "I am so sorry."

I don't know if she can or not. But after about the dozenth repetition, sleep takes me into a restless slumber.

I'm alive! Kind of. Life has been keeping me busy and mildly miserable, but I'm getting by. Writing is about the only thing keeping me sane, so it's not that I lack motivation to do this. It's the fact I literally have to choose between this and seven hours of sleep some nights. But I'm getting by, still wanting to write this, and working on it. I won't talk about how much time I spent in Dishonored 2, FYI: plenty of lore notes written down, as well as enjoyed dropping onto guards with my boots.

No promises when the next chapter comes out, I know better. But I am working on it. Promise. And remember, Corvo's telling someone this story.