Chapter 11: What Makes You
27th of Month of High Cold, 1837
2:47 AM
Samuel gets us into the river without further complications. The rain lasts another fifteen minutes or so before letting up, but clouds continue to hide the moon. The ancient boatman uses only the lights on the shore as a guide towards our base. He speaks little, even less so than usual. Not that we have much to discuss, but the silence feels thick this evening.
I keep myself busy looking over my equipment, cataloging what I gathered and spent. Two poisoned darts, three flaming bolts, and eight standard arrows remain for the crossbow. I still have ten rounds for the unused pistol, as well as three grenades and two springrazors. A total of six bonecharms are working their magic in my hip pocket, whatever their effects are. They did not come with labels to tell me of their uses. One seems to make the white rats friendly to me. I'll figure out the others in time.
Bits of jewelry, cooper spools, and coin sit in my concealed pockets. With any luck, Piero can trade them for more supplies. He mentioned his sleep poison is not cheap to make, but those darts are too helpful not to use. I also found a diagram for a telescope's compact lenses, which he may be able to modify for the mask. It cannot hurt to ask.
The sword is holding up nicely. It folds smoothly, and still holds the razor edge Piero gave it. Using it for leverage on wooden boards didn't even scratch the surface. The only problem is the dried blood still on it. There were more rats in the alleys than I mentioned to Curnow. Cutting a few to pieces drove the swarm off.
I dip the blade into the river, turning the surrounding water crimson. The change is almost invisible in the dark night. My fingers rub the more stubborn blood away, careful to avoid the blade's edge. It only takes a few moments of effort to restore it to its previous sheen.
"How many did you kill?" Samuel asks, breaking the silence. I look up to see him eying me with suspicion. Or rather the sword.
I scoff. "Three rats. It was them or me."
"That's not what I meant." The boatman shows more anger than I expected. Not the dark humor or sympathy I've come to expect. Out of all the Loyalists, he seems the most... understanding. It's strange to see that gone. "How many men did you cut down with that sword?"
"None. Even Campbell is still breathing." I wipe the water from the blade, then fold it away.
Confusion lessens the anger on his face. "You were supposed to kill him, I thought. The whole point of this was to deal with the Campbell. Did you do anything while you were in there?"
"I stole Campbell's book, stopped three Bottle Street thugs from robbing Granny Rags, and freed Martin for us. I managed that without killing anyone and left only one witness who saw a masked man take his friends in seconds. So yes, I did something while you waited with the boat."
"That still leaves the Overseers on the street, under the Regent's command. That's why Havelock needed you to kill Campbell." Sarcasm is not the best word for his tone, but is the closest I can think of. Almost mocking, as if I failed at the one job I was given.
"He didn't need to die for that. Not when I can trick his men into thinking he's a heretic." A small smile shows my pride in my work. "I used a ritual brand on his face, and the Overseers won't question the it. They will throw him out before morning, and no one in Dunwall will save him. More fitting than death, don't you think?"
Samuel scoffs, still in disbelief. "Fine. And the rest of them? None of the Watch or Overseers got in your way?"
"Plenty did, and I'm sure some will realize they did not fall asleep at their post. But Piero's poison will wear off eventually. The worst they will have are migraines, even the ones I dealt with by hand."
The boatman stares at me with his old grey eyes, trying to find some indication of a lie. Not that there would be one if I was, but pointing that out would not help my case. Better to let him reach that conclusion himself.
After a minute, he relaxes. The pucker in his lips fades away, and he leans back. He bundles his scarf tighter over himself, still staring at me. The gaze is more curious scrutiny than rage. "You really spared them all? You didn't have to kill any of them?"
I nod, polishing the mask in my lap. "It would have been faster, but no. The only one I intended to kill was Campbell, and only if I couldn't find another solution."
"Why?"
"Even the Overseers, as misguided as they are, think they are doing the right thing," I sigh. "Same goes for the Watch. And, to a degree, they are. I won't kill them for trying to do their job."
"And you left Campbell to prove him wrong?" Samuel asks. "You wanted to show you're not the murderer they claim you are?"
I laugh a little. "Something to that effect. He deserves to suffer, not simply die. And I won't pretend I won't sleep better knowing I was the one who gave him those scars."
He nods, accepting the small lie. "I can't say I blame you. With what he did, I'm not sure I would've left him alive in your place."
My mind comes up with nothing to add, and lets the topic drop.
Samuel returns to steering the boat, not looking toward me. "We should be back in the Hound Pits soon. A half hour, if we're lucky."
I start to reach into the empty coat pocket before talking myself out of it. She can wait until we reach the pub: it's safer that way. I settle on taking the necklace off and rubbing the ring in my fingers. The metal is warm in my grip, enough to get me through for now. Feeling the old insignias helps me remember the night Jessamine gave it to me. Remember the comforting nights when the world felt right. Not perfect, but workable. Times that seemed amazing compared to the shit we live in now. When I could wear the ring and not care about what it implied.
"I wanted to kill him," I blurt out. Not loudly, not enough to wake those on the shore, but more than enough to get Samuel's attention. "Standing over him, I wanted to force that brand down his throat. I didn't care about the Overseers questioning what happened, or proving him wrong. I wanted to end his fucking life as painfully as I could. And send him to the Outsider with a message to make room for Burrows and the rest of them. I wanted him to suffer for what he did."
The boatman locks the motor in place, letting it drive on its own. Then he adjusts to sit next to me. I feel his hand rest on my shoulder in a firm grip. "It happens," he says. "You're human, Corvo, and that bastard probably would've deserved it. You have every right to be angry with him."
I clench a fist on the ring, almost as tight as I can manage. A part of me wants to confess everything on my mind. It's the same stupid part that made me trap Geoff. But there's no telling how that will come back to bite me as it is. I won't repeat that mistake with a near stranger. There are other ways to cope, to push through. I'll manage. A few moments of breathing get me through the worst of it.
"Thanks," I say to Samuel, not opening my eyes. My hand relaxes, and my fingers start gently rubbing the bit of gold again.
He says nothing. He pats my back, then resumes control of the boat. I hear the engine accelerate, presumably towards the Hound Pits. My outburst probably worried him.
The remainder of the ride is quiet, a more natural silence than was before. It's a small, but welcome improvement.
True to his word, Samuel pulls us into dock at the pub in no more than twenty minutes. No one is waiting for us when we stop. My talk with Geoff went much longer than I expected. The rest of them probably went to bed, rather than waiting up for us.
"Admiral Havelock and Lord Pendleton were supposed to be in the courtyard to congratulate you. That was when we were due back at midnight," Samuel reminds me.
"Feel free to join me next time, remind me to move faster while I avoid the Watch," I say, making the sarcasm as obvious as possible.
The boatman laughs. His craft swings around, and he tosses a rope onto the dock's hitch. "Get some sleep while you can. I imagine we'll be busy tomorrow."
I climb out, slapping him on the shoulder. There's no sign of anyone else at the top of the staircase, the courtyard, or in Piero's workshop. A small lantern burns in the main room of the Hound Pits Pub, but is the only light in sight. At least one person is still up. I slip back into my sneaking persona like a pair of old boots. Depending on who it is, this may be the perfect opportunity to learn something about my friends. It rarely hurts to know more than they realize you do.
Crouched just beneath the windows, I follow the wall with a careful ear. The gate next to Piero's workshop is locked, but I stole one of those keys last night. I slip through it quietly and finally catch the first whispers of a conversation. Pendleton's arrogant tone is distinct enough to pick out, but I can't place the other yet. The building turns the corner at an abandoned street, then continues down the block. Looks like the third window table has the guests and lantern. I stay low under the window just before theirs, in case one of them decides to look out.
"They're all corrupt. If this is going to work, we're going to have to take down the Lord Regent and all of his key allies, you know that," says Admiral Havelock. The tactician in him is showing. Calm, calculating, mostly impersonal. A little forced, but it is obvious he doesn't care for whoever he's talking about.
"Yes, hopefully the High Overseer is a first step along that path." Pendleton. The youngest of the noble line is not as calm as his companion, but still remarkably at ease. Aristocratic bastards like him are good at that.
"And we must find the girl, Emily. Who knows what her mind is like, being there when her mother was killed."
"I'd imagine the daughter of the Empress is tougher than you'd think."
"In any case, we won't get to the Lord Regent until we weaken his base. All of the pieces are in play. He's controlled the City Watch, and with Campbell, he controlled the religious faction. Someone's funding the military. And he currently has a majority in Parliament." Havelock shows a bit of disdain in his voice, as well as more of that ruthless calculus.
"Yes, I'm aware of that. My brothers currently control the voting block for my family. I'm very much aware of that."
Hmm. The Pendleton family has been a major Parliament player for decades. Not the richest, or the most public, but one of the smartest in the game. They always knew how to use their votes to their advantage. Probably one of the first to sign on to the scheme, once they saw the personal benefits. That solves the mystery of which aristocrats need to fall after I save Emily. I'm somewhat surprised Trevor would sell out his own brothers, but he never cared for them. Rumor has it the elder twins went so far as to put live vipers in his bed as children.
It's more than I expected to learn tonight. Satisfied, I sneak back towards the door closest to the dock, and walk in with a casual calm. "It's done. Sorry for the delay."
Havelock looks up in surprise, then smiles. "You did it! I knew you were our man, Corvo."
Pendleton's surprise takes longer to fade than the Admiral's but it deteriorates just the same.
Havelock stands, then approaches from the far side of the L-shaped bar. "With Campbell gone, we've hurt the Lord Regent immeasurably. And with Martin back, we have the finest strategist alive."
"You assume a lot," I say. "You're right, but I never said I succeeded."
The Admiral grins. "I knew you would."
"The Lord Regent must be shitting himself in Dunwall Tower," Trevor laughs. Probably the most rebellious thing he's done in his privileged life.
"And you have Campbell's journal?" Havelock asks.
I nod.
"Excellent. Our hope is, within those encoded pages, the location and condition of Emily Kaldwin can be discovered. Our entire movement will mean nothing if we can't place the proper heir on the throne."
"And you would lose your assassin," I remind them. I made it clear Emily was my priority when I agreed to this. Everything we do is to save her: The Regent falls second. If she ever becomes a lower priority, I leave.
"We remember, Corvo, don't worry," Havelock says. "We must act fast. No doubt the Lord Regent is holding Emily somewhere, waiting to reveal her, to step out as a hero and further cement his regency."
"If he doesn't bring forth Lady Emily soon, there'll be in-fighting among the nobles as to who should succeed the Empress," Pendleton explains.
"Time is against us," Havelock admits, reading my thoughts. "But now, you should take a well-earned rest, Corvo. We will decipher the contents of the journal and share them with you later."
I meet the Admiral in the middle of the bar, handing him the black book. "As soon as you can. Piero and Martin will be the ones to work on this?"
He nods. "I'll wake Piero immediately, and Martin will join him soon, whenever he arrives."
"Tell him it's based on a Tyvian cypher their spies are fond of," I say. "I can't understand it, but I recognize some of the letters. Tell them to start there, and to search the last four months. Campbell's notes mentioned they had to move Emily after her capture, so anything older than that is useless. And tell Piero to prepare as many of those poison darts he can manage. Coin won't be an issue."
Havelock is the one surprised this time, not the noble. Jessamine used me as something of a personal spy when I was her Lord Protector. Enough of the aristocracy knew to be wary of me in a crowded room where I could hide. In addition to political information, I stumbled onto several foreign spies Burrows missed. Not what I was trained for as the Lord Protector, but I arrived with experience.
Nodding to them both, I press past the bend of the bar towards the stairs. A shadow appears at the outer door. My blade extends out of reflex. An Overseer steps through almost silently, my body in his path. Martin jumps with a shout when notices me inches away. He's lucky I recognized him quickly, or the sword would have been at his throat.
"And I thought I was late," I chuckle, stowing my blade. "Havelock will fill you in."
Without another word, I go through an interior door to the staircase. The first floor holds nothing other than the pub, but the second serves as a dormitory for the others. Knowing the leaders are downstairs, I risk a search into the private bedrooms. The servants should be sleeping in the public room at the end of the hall, but Pendleton's and Havelock's are isolated enough for some investigation. I come across the noble's chambers first, and find little of interest. His sparse but well-decorated room show the tidiness of servants and a well-endowed upbringing. He doesn't sleep here, other than in short naps: no real food or creature comforts.
The table at the end of the room has a letter being written, sitting next to an audiograph machine. His elegant cursive shows most of the message, minus a final paragraph or so. Trevor's begging a cousin for help with his brothers. They've taken total control of the voting from him, and are supporting the Regent at every turn. He's trying to rally her by saying the next vote will take away too much from the aristocracy, and Burrows will be too powerful for his own good. His brothers will vote in the Regent's favor for their own selfish reasons, and they need to be stopped. It almost reads as if he's trying to save his siblings from becoming my next target. They are still family. But he would benefit if the votes were his, so there is no way to tell. Conventionally, at least.
I play the audiograph on low, and shut it off before Pendleton's voice can finish the first sentence. More notes for his memoirs, whining about his unfair brothers and how his spoiled upbringing wasn't perfect. The thought of hearing more gives me a migraine.
Havelock's room, further down the hall and uncomfortably close to the sleeping quarters of the servants, is still obviously where he lives. The impressive collection of military history books on the shelves, as well as the used bed and plaque of military medals speak to his comfort here. One thing I didn't lie to Geoff about was the planning materials he leaves on his desk. Maps of the city, blueprints of buildings, and notes of possible tactics cover his desk haphazardly. The only pristine things here are his log book and another audiograph. His diary shows nothing since the last time I read it, and the sheet in the player has the same title as this morning's. I will check later, see what he thought of my accomplishments tonight.
I head back to the stairwell, then travel up two more floors to my attic bedroom. The open, massive window towards the river bothers me as a security risk, but lets in a pleasant breeze. I walk past that and into the bedchambers themselves, though they barely deserve the title. The old room is cluttered of unused furniture that is more dust than wood. A clean bed, desk, and dresser sit in an isolated corner by an unlit lamp. An improvement over Coldridge, but not by much. At least the companions are league better. I look over my shoulder every ten minutes now, rather than two.
I take the wet clothes off and hang them to dry by the window. The silk sleepwear in the dresser are warm and soft, almost too much so to feel real. As I sit down on the bed, I notice the new addition sitting on my table: another audiograph with a loaded sheet, and a note pinned to the side. My eyes adjust to the darkness, and spot Lydia's utilitarian cursive.
It took some looking, but I found a spare at Lord Pendleton's home. The recording was in the collection he never touches. It won't be missed for some time. Enjoy it: you deserve it. ~L
Thumbing the small play button, the sheet starts to rise and fall in the machine. Piano notes slip out of the speakers with a quiet grace. I smile at the familiar tune, but it is only one of the things I feel at the moment.
"What doesn't kill you..." a gentle woman's voice sings. "Makes you wish you were dead."
So many memories with this song, most of them pleasant or comforting. But combined with what I know now, what has happened since, the dissonance almost hurts.
"I've got a hole in my soul growing deeper and deeper. And I can't take..."
Reaching into my empty pocket, my fingers grasp around someone who isn't truly there. She becomes solid in my grip, warm, sticky, and mechanical all at once. With a bit of focus, I could make her appear before my eyes. But somehow this is more comforting, more natural. It's easier to think I'm carrying her with me, rather than summoning her from the Void.
"One more moment of this silence, the loneliness is haunting me. And the weight of the world is getting harder to hold up."
What's left of Jessamine beats in my hand as I pull her from my pocket. Her Heart seems both real and unreal, perfect and wrong. The slow, warm pulse feels like the rhythm of a song I lost and would give anything to have back. But the turning cogs in the center, visible through the glass window mounted into her flesh, ruin the image. Not that it isn't already wrong, seeing a loved one's severed heart in my palm.
"It comes in waves, I close my eyes. I hold my breath and let it bury me."
Beyond the artificial ticking and pumping, I can feel what's left of her. Not just her blood or organ, but what made her who she was. Piero believes that one's soul is trapped in their heart. When it stops beating, they pass on to wherever it is we go. But if the heart itself is somehow kept alive, the soul will stay there. I am beginning to believe him more and more.
"I'm not okay, and it's not all right. Won't you drag the lake and bring me home again?"
"Thank you for guiding me, love," I whisper, ignoring the music and running a finger down her side. Here, I feel her pulse instead of the ticking. Still worrying, still terrifying. But better.
I put the slightest pressure on her, only a gentle squeeze.
Their fate rests on your effort. On the strength of your hands, and of your heart.
Her voice isn't aloud, but I hear it clearly. Almost like my dreams, when I let my mind remember. But rather than memories I have dwelled on a thousand times, the words are new. Her voice, her soul, but darkened by Burrows and Daud ruining our lives. Like mine, perhaps?
"I know. But not only my heart." I close my eyes and bring her closer to my head. "Sparing them… even Campbell… was that right?"
Only the piano and singing flows through the air. She never answers, not without pressure from my hand. At times, it's comforting. Others, I must repress the bile at the back of my throat. Tonight, her pulse as I squeeze is calming, almost sedating.
Can you hear them too? Crying out in the dark?
I shiver, somehow from both sorrow and terror. "No… I only hear you."
In some ridiculous thought, I adjust the volume of the audiograph. Loud enough for those on the empty floor below to hear. It won't reach the others in the sleeping quarters, but I don't care if it does. The music is not for them.
"Does that help, Jessamine?" I ask, now clutching her against my chest. Keeping my eyes closed makes the illusion easier to maintain. Her warmth almost makes it feel as if all of her is curled against me, as she should be. Not this tormented portion of her. "Focus on the song, not the cries. No matter how sad it is, you always loved it. Remember?"
I roll onto my side, placing her nearer the music. Maybe there she will hear it better. Or maybe I can pretend that's true. I pull the blanket to my shoulders, and keep her tight against me. She is the warmest thing in the room. I'm careful not to smother her in my embrace. She needs to hear the song.
Why am I so cold?
I hug her tighter, and clench my eyes shut. "Please sleep, Jessamine. Rest… Let us both rest."
The mechanical ticking seems to subside. Instead, she slowly pulses, as her Heart is meant to. I curl around her, trying not to shiver.
On the table, her song continues to play. "Who will fix me now, dive in when I'm down? Save me from myself. Don't let me drown."
Going to be honest here: since the beginning of this story's inception, I've wanted to use Evanescence's "My Immortal" in it. Besides being a beautiful song, the parallels to Corvo and Jessamine's relationship here seemed like a perfect metaphor. But I also took a class with one of my favorite writing teachers, and she actually dedicated a class to incorporating other stories into your own, making references to them. (The example she used was a student's investigator story, and his character's fondness for Sherlock Holmes.) The lesson essentially boiled down to, "If the comparison is too perfect, find something else or change your story." And after a solid month of debate with myself on that one, I had to go with her advice. Thankfully, I found a beautiful cover of Bring Me The Horizon's Drown that works just as well, if not better for the piece. The link is in my Tumblr. GV-Archangel, in case you forgot.
Anyway, whoo. Another one down. It's nice to be in a regular habit of writing again. Still not as often as I'd like, but I can live with at least an hour four days a week. Next post will likely be another short-story thing that has little to do with this, just for a quick break, but I'm not letting up on this. Besides, I've been anxious to get to chapter 12 here. The plans I have... (I'm starting to sound like my DM, right before we walk into an ambush of Bugbears.) Hope to have something posted soon. ~MGA