Chapter 2
The Office of the High Overseer was still draped in black banners when she arrived; they matched the suit she had donned that morning, though she suspected the banners might be of finer fabric. She'd picked her garments with care with two thoughts in mind. The first was simply a matter of appropriate mourning, both for her uncle and for the life she was leaving behind, at least for a little while. The second was the curious side effect that mourning clothes had on her.
They were her armor, her dearest protection, a familiar steeling of her spine and straightening of her shoulders.
The Overseers who met her at the gate and escorted her into the great, towering building were, she assumed, Martin's men. They hadn't greeted her with any sort of deference, but there seemed to be an odd note of respect in the distance they kept from her as they walked. None of them made comments about her uncle, or referenced vague threats.
As they passed into the building, the banners changed from black to a riot of colors. The majority were the same red she was familiar with, that the Regent flew and the Abbey, too, but some were gold, some were a rich wine purple, and a few even neared Kaldwin blue. The red banners grew less and less frequent as they left the more public halls (though which guests they feared seeing the less conventional banners, she couldn't guess, since none were allowed in still). By the time they reached the hall of doors, with Martin's office at the end of it, there was only a single red banner remaining, and its fabric was comparatively worn.
There were more people walking about than there had been the last time she'd visited - and a significant portion, all with a flash of red or some other color peeking above their belts, didn't wear their masks. She'd assumed Martin had kept his off in his office because of the privacy, and had removed it at her uncle's apartment to make a point, but the men circulating with their faces bare seemed to be at work, discussing things in low voices, consulting charts and books inside their offices with their doors flung wide.
Many spared her a glance or two. She heard Martin's name whispered. She kept her head slightly bowed in deference, and was glad when she reached Martin's door and knocked before her escort could.
"Miss Curnow, here to see Overseer Martin," she said.
"Come in," he responded.
She glanced once more at her escorts, who looked at her with their unreadable masks, then opened the door and slipped inside.
Martin was sitting at his desk once more, a small black book open in one hand as he leaned back in his seat, his feet propped before him, legs crossed at the ankles. He glanced up from his reading as she approached, a smile beginning to curl his lips. No, not his lips, she decided - it was more a mirthful, yet calculating, narrowing of his eyes.
"Very good clothing choice. Should I prevail, I'll see what I can do about getting you a uniform modeled after it," he said. He didn't, she noted, invite her to sit.
So she remained standing a few feet away, hands clasped before her. "Prevail?"
"In our little internal struggle. Chances are looking very good that I'm to be the next High Overseer, though. The stars are- favorable."
The way he said it made her skin crawl, ever so slightly, and her gaze went to the book in his hand. It didn't look like Strictures, or even a printed book. It looked more like a personal notebook.
He shut it, and she looked up to find him watching her, that same appraising, glittering light in his eyes. He said nothing as he slipped the book into a pocket of his uniform.
"Things have changed since I was here last," she said, after a moment's strained silence.
"The Feast of Painted Kettles is in full swing, yes," he said. "Tell me, what changes have you noticed? I'd like a demonstration of your attention to detail."
"Is this an interview?" she asked, hands tightening around one another.
"Of a sort. I believe you will be a useful assistant, but two meetings is hardly enough to form a firm opinion. Just tell me everything you've noticed."
"Not much," she confessed, pressing her legs together in an unconscious attempt to shrink down. The armor of her mourning garments kept her from hunching forward. "That there are banners hung which each seem to match the bits of fabric several Overseers are wearing near their belts. That those Overseers so marked are not wearing their masks. That to the outside world, the building is still in deep mourning, but that it's only a facade if you're allowed inside."
He hummed, then slid his feet from the desk and sat forward. "Understandably, you lack the metaphysical context to understand all of that?"
"I could take guesses, but they'd only be guesses."
"Don't worry," he said as he rose from his seat and circled around his desk. "What the Abbey teaches the masses is very... simplified. There are additional layers of protection against the Outsider that we practice every day that simply wouldn't be possible to disseminate. You will have to learn them, though, to be an effective assistant, or else you will misinterpret behaviors or think certain phrases are important when, in reality, they hold no meaning and seek only to distract from the speaker's true intentions."
She nodded, slowly. "My uncle told me about similar... behaviors among the Watch. That a citizen could see the Watch every day but not fully understand what some of the posturing meant."
"It's true of any closed group, to a greater or lesser degree," Martin agreed. He motioned for her to follow him over to one of the windows lining the opposite side of his office.
"Have you ever heard a theory as to why we Overseers wear our masks?"
"Protection," she said. "Intimidation."
He looked at her from the corner of his eye. "Anything else? You can trust me, Miss Curnow - I'm asking you to repeat what you've heard, not tell me your innermost feelings."
She swallowed, nervously. "... Unaccountability. If an Overseer makes an error, even if it costs somebody their life, the surviving family can't point to a single person and ask for justice. They can only point at the whole Abbey, which is too dangerous."
He chuckled. "And did your uncle teach you that?"
"He agreed with it," she said.
"It's not wrong," he said. Callista's eyes widened at the easy candor in his voice, and she watched him, suspiciously, nervously. "In fact, it's very close to the reason all the Overseers believe."
"Believe?"
"I am of the opinion," Martin drawled, "that the men who created the Abbey were still men, and that they considered a great many things when they founded the order. Many were soldiers. Most had experience clashing with armies and taking prisoners. They were practical men, Miss Curnow, and I guarantee you that they knew the effect that indistinguishable masks had on everybody outside of their group."
Her eyes widened further. "That sounds-"
"Heretical?" he asked, lightly.
She nodded.
"I won't tell if you won't, Miss Curnow."
The air seemed thick and close around her, coiling around her bare throat. She had never been a fervent adherent, but she'd been raised speaking the Strictures and she had been taught to obey every one, if only to avoid drawing dangerous attention to herself. But here, in the heart of the Abbey, a man who would be High Overseer could tell her this and ask for her confidence.
She thought back to their earlier conversations. He'd been so focused, in his way, on the issue of trust - her trusting him to protect her, him trusting her with details of the High Overseer's death. He was testing her at every step, and she looked at him again, at the firm line of his jaw, the shadow of his brow.
He had no reason to trust her, but he was telling her something he at least wanted her to believe was heretical. For all she knew, other Overseers of his rank might believe the same thing. It might be an open secret. It hardly mattered; what mattered was his extension of trust. She could live up to it, or she could betray him.
He was testing her.
"I won't tell," she said. "I have no reason to."
Martin chuckled. "I'm sure you could think of some, if you wanted. But I appreciate your candor." He turned to face her, leaning against the windowsill.
"What do the others believe?" she asked, trying desperately to read his body language, his expression. How much of this was a test? She had to assume all of it.
"That the masks, because they all look the same, will confuse spirits - even the Outsider - and protect the identity of the individuals beneath them. If a spirit cannot identify who fights it, the man is safe the moment the fray is over. Any spirit who attempts to attack an Overseer will be unable to focus its efforts. The danger is spread out and borne by the whole Abbey." He chuckled. "As I said- very close to your theory on unaccountability."
"It's hardly my theory."
He grinned. "Of course not, Miss Curnow."
His gaze on her was warm, despite its testing appraisal. A part of her wanted to let her guard drop. He had told her she was safe here, and that little part, that very tired part of her, wanted to believe him.
Her voice was somewhat softer when she asked, "And the Overseers no longer wearing masks?"
His only answer was a lifted brow.
"And the distinct colors," she said, but it came out as a statement, not a question, and she frowned in thought. "It makes you all very easy to identify, doesn't it?"
"A High Overseer," Martin said, "can't be afraid of what lurks in the darkness, can he?"
"I suppose not," she agreed.
She fancied that Martin was impressed with her, reading it in the way he turned from the window and went to the sideboard to pour them both a drink.
"So what will my duties be, Overseer?"
"Very few, until the Feast is concluded," he said, glancing up at her. "Your presence will be... potentially disruptive until then. The Abbey hires no maids, and the only women who walk these halls with any sort of authority are the sisters of the Oracular Order. Your existence and position are dangerously out of step with the way things have always been done."
"That won't change once the Feast is done - and I assume once you're High Overseer?"
He shrugged. "A normal Overseer hardly needs an assistant," he agreed. "So until the Feast is concluded, our visits will be more about education - I need you up to speed as quickly as possible. And it will also be about getting my brothers used to your presence.
"There is also, of course, the need for you to publicly denounce your uncle."
He said it so easily that it took Callista several breaths to process what he had said. Her heart sank. "Publicly-"
"Yes, for the whole Abbey to see. You must prove that you hate the man, and that you will be the first to strike a blow against him if he is ever found."
"I can't-"
"Lying is not so hard," he said, returning to her, holding the glass for her to take. "And it's a skill you'll need."
"Is this another test?" she asked, not taking the glass.
"Test?"
"To see if I'm worthy of your trust."
He chuckled. "Everything and nothing is a test for that - I'll decide that based on everything you say and do, not just your response to discrete challenges. No, Miss Curnow, this is first and foremost an unfortunate necessity - you are your uncle's niece, and the Regent - and many of my brothers - wanted you tortured until you confessed your uncle's whereabouts. This will be for your protection."
She grimaced, gaze focused, unseeing, on the red peeking above Martin's belt.
"You will also never be allowed to mourn him in public," Martin continued, voice quieter, softer. "Though I will, of course, perform any necessary ceremonies if you require comfort to move on from his- absence."
"Shall I stop wearing black, then?" she asked, her voice sounding hollow even to her.
He hummed, tapping his finger against one glass. "If you like. Though perhaps just wearing a flash of red..."
He turned and set both glasses down again, then returned to her, working the bit of red fabric loose from his belt. She looked up at him, brows drawn together in confusion, then held very still as he looked her over. His eyes were narrowed in thought as he held the fabric up as if to wrap it around her upper arm, his lips pursing. He considered.
And then he looped it around her throat instead. Her breath caught. She didn't dare move as he tied it loosely around her neck, settling the knot in the hollow of her neck. The leather of his gloves brushed against the column of her throat, and she shuddered, lips parting. By the time he pulled away, her chest was heaving just enough to be noticeable.
"There," he said. "Black and red- I rather like it on you."
She reached up and felt at the fabric. It smelled like the leather of his belt and the starch that kept his uniform hanging so neatly on his frame. It was slightly worn, and the edges were unbound; threads tickled at her fingertips as she tucked the raw edges away.
"You look frightened, Miss Curnow," he said. "Don't you trust me?"
She eyed him, warily. "I'm still trying to decide," she said.
She watched as he grinned, then laughed and turned from her, going back to the table where he'd left his whiskey. "My estimation of you only increases," he said, bending to retrieve one glass.
"I'd like to know what you'll need of me if you become High Overseer," she said, trying to ignore the rush of pleasure that she'd felt at his laugh and his compliment. "To better prepare."
"Brush up on your geography, and read your Strictures," he said, turning back to her. He leaned against the table, sipping at his drink. "The way I see it, you'll be a second set of eyes and ears for me. Most of what I have to do will be matters of policy that will remain opaque to you, largely because the other Overseers would become... distressed, knowing that somebody not of our order was influencing me. Instead, to them, you'll be largely responsible for setting my schedule, arranging meetings, taking dictation on correspondence, making political visits when I can't."
"And I'll pay attention when I do," she said, slowly.
"Yes. Like any good assistant."
"Have you done something like this before?"
He chuckled. "Come now, Miss Curnow- you know the stories. Us Overseers are taken - selected - as children, torn away from our homes as boys. When would I have gotten the chance?"
Callista flushed, reaching up to toy with the cloth around her throat absently.
"I'm just an observant, thoughtful man. And you will be the equivalent of the Lord Protector."
"That's not particularly auspicious, Overseer Martin," she said, slowly, brow drawing down.
He snorted. "Well, you can't handle a sword quite so well. I'm sure I'll be safe."
The look he fixed her with made her swallow and glance away; it was a challenge, a threat, and it was all edged with the quiet, mocking certainty that she wasn't dangerous at all.
She kept quiet about the marksmanship lessons her uncle had insisted on.
"You'll have to go before the Oracular Order, I suppose," Martin continued, voice light. "But they can be won over. I'm sure they'll like you, really - nothing too scandalous in your past, and you seem like the sort to use the Fugue Feast for contemplation instead of licentious behavior. The High Oracle will approve."
Callista felt her cheeks heating. "This will all take some- thought."
"Have you found other options?"
She dared a look back at him. What was he testing now? He was pushing so hard to bring her into his world, to isolate her- but if he was serious about what he'd want of her, he was going to leave himself vulnerable to her. It hardly made sense.
"No," she said, slowly. "But I'd like a reassurance that I'll be able to leave, if the work doesn't suit me."
"I promised your uncle I would help you."
"For reasons you still can't tell me," she reminded him, wringing her hands together. "And my uncle would have insisted I have a way out."
He shrugged. "Then you can leave at any time."
She watched him, carefully, for any sign of deception or mockery. She found it hard to believe that, being privy to the High Overseer's secrets, she'd be allowed to simply walk outside the walls and be done with it all.
"And while I stay," she said, enunciating each word, "where will I stay?"
"Your apartment, I'd assume," he said. "I'll do what I can to get your uncle's place out of Burrows's- Timsh's hands, as that'd certainly be nicer, but where you are now will have to do. After all, we don't have rooms for you here. This is a job for you, not life. Just a job."
The apartment. She took a deep, steadying breath.
"You'll be one of the most powerful men in the Empire," she said.
He grinned. "I will," he agreed.
She had opened her mouth to ask what that would mean for her when somebody knocked on the door and then announced, "The Lord Regent, here to see Overseer Martin."
Callista watched as Martin's expression changed minutely; it passed from surprise, to frustration, to a sharp, hawk-like interest. Wordlessly, he fixed his gaze on her, then motioned to his desk.
She frowned, and he lifted his brows. Slowly, she moved to the spot he had indicated. He motioned for her to straighten her spine, and she did. And then he called out, "Enter!" and turned to face the door.
Callista did her best to keep her face impassive as two city watch officers stepped into the room and took up positions on either side of the door. They were followed by a tall, thin man with a hooked nose, whose eyes were already narrowed in suspicion as he looked Martin over. When his gaze tracked across the room and settled on her, suspicion turned to outright disgust.
"Who is that?"
Martin smiled, pleasantly. "That would be my new assistant, Lord Regent. Miss Callista Curnow."
Burrows didn't bother hiding his sneer. "The traitor's niece, who you refused to allow my men to take into custody?"
"The same," Martin said with a shrug. "Can I get you a drink, Lord Regent?"
He glanced around the room, regarding the sideboard with the same disgust. "Nothing of the swill you have in here, certainly."
"Then I'll send my assistant to the cellars," Martin replied. "Would a fine Tyvian red suit?"
He wrinkled his nose. "I suppose."
"It's from Campbell's store."
"Of course it is."
"Please, sit," Martin said, taking the path behind his desk that let him pass close to Callista. He didn't touch her, or look at her, but something in the way he positioned himself made her relax, if only slightly.
Burrows moved to the fireplace. "I'd rather stand. This won't be a long meeting, I shouldn't think."
"Of course," Martin said, sitting all the same. "Miss Curnow, would you bring us up that wine, then?"
She licked her lips, a hundred protests ready, but another glance at Burrows - now with his back to her - made her say only, "Of course, Overseer Martin." The walk to the door was unnerving, the two primaries in the room ignoring her while the watchmen trained their gazes on her unerringly. As she left the room, she heard them fall into step behind her.
But an Overseer was waiting for her, just outside the door, and he motioned for her to accompany him. The guards stopped just beyond the door, taking up station on either side of it. She gratefully followed at the Overseer's heels until they were far enough away from the guards for her to feel safe whispering, "I need to get to the cellars."
"I heard," said the man in the mask. It was one of the men who had escorted her earlier - one of Martin's men. The muscles of her neck remained knotted in fear, but she was able to breathe a little easier. "I'll take care of it."
But they bypassed the stairs, instead hooking around into another hallway, emptier than the others she'd seen. The Overseer at her side produced a key from his pocket, and fitted it into the lock on an old, barely-maintained wooden door. It hid a small room filled with brooms and vinegar and old rags, along with bits and pieces of broken furniture.
"What-"
"Go in, and crouch behind the chair with the green upholstery. There's a crack in the wall. Listen through it. I'll be back with the wine."
She frowned, unmoving.
"Brother Martin's orders," he said. "I'm always to listen to these sorts of meetings. But I'll get the wine instead this time."
"Who-"
"Windham. Please, Miss Curnow." His shoulders were stiff and tight, and Callista feared violence for a moment - but he never reached for her.
She swallowed. "I want the key."
He handed it to her. "It comes back to me in exchange for the wine."
"Of course," she said, fingers curling around the metal. He'd given it so easily that her heart slowed faintly from its frantic pounding, and with one last glance, she began picking her way into the closet. He shut the door behind her, and she didn't hear a click of any latch.
The room was pitch black and filled with jumbled, sharp objects. She moved cautiously, trying to remember where the chair with the green upholstery had been. Its arms had been bare wood, she remembered, ending in blocky flares, and she skimmed her fingertips over what felt like a million wrong things, made of wood and moldy fabric and straw and metal. Finally, she found the chair, and beyond it, a small space next to the wall. She levered herself over the junk in the way, then crouched down.
A thin sliver of light beckoned. She bent towards it. She could make out voices, faint but distinct.
"Don't play the fool with me," Hiram Burrows hissed.
"I would never," came Martin's easy drawl. "But if you keep dancing around what you mean to ask me, how can I give you a straight answer? Tell me, Lord Regent - have you paid visits to the other candidates?"
"A few, but they're the common sort. Too pious, not clever enough by half, and all with alibis for the night of Campbell's death."
"While I agree with your assessment, I believe you'll find that I also have an alibi."
"What, your ridiculous story of being approached by Farley Havelock?"
"If you had been able to keep him in lockup, perhaps I wouldn't have found him drunk in a pub ranting about how his ship had been taken from him. I wasn't approached, Lord Regent - I was merely detained for an uncomfortable half hour trying to calm a paranoid, violent man who was hoping the Abbey would come to his aid."
"And yet you didn't arrest him, despite his clearly treasonous and heretical rantings?"
"I was but one man, Lord Regent."
There was silence for a moment. Callista pressed her ear closer to the crack.
"Now, what are you here for, Lord Regent?"
"You know why, you snake!"
"I'm afraid I don't know."
Callista heard the creak of wood as Martin no doubt leaned back in his seat. There was no other sound at first, then footsteps, then the whisper of Burrows' voice:
"Campbell was a fool; I know he must have left... records. And if anybody in this Order has them, it's you, Overseer Martin."
"That would certainly make sense," Martin conceded, without admitting a single thing.
"Then you and I must come to an understanding," Burrows hissed. "I don't know exactly what you've read, but I must insist on your... circumspection. And your cooperation."
"You have nothing to fear from me," he drawled.
Burrows growled, and Callista jumped as something crashed against the floor close on the other side of the wall.
"I think that we can be very useful to one another," Martin said, voice as easy as if he were discussing the weather. "I have no intention of harming your reign, should I become High Overseer. Is that enough?"
"I want the girl gone."
"The girl?"
Callista tensed.
"Curnow's niece. How much does she know?"
"That isn't your concern. She stays."
"I don't want a third party knowing-"
"Campbell spilled his secrets regularly to his whores, Lord Regent, as I'm sure you're well aware. Now, he threw most of them in the river, but there might still be a few out there who- well. If you like, I could track them down. But Miss Curnow is not among their number. She will know what she needs to know, and nothing else, and she will assist. I hired her for a reason, Lord Regent. Or do you think me an idiot?"
"I don't know what to think of you."
Somebody knocked on the closet door, and Callista went rigid, holding her breath. She waited for the handle to turn, or for somebody to test the lock, but nothing happened.
"-assure you, Lord Regent, you have nothing to fear. I'm not a man for politics," Martin was saying.
"Bullshit. That's all this conclave is-"
Another knock, this time light, and Callista made out footsteps retreating. Probably Windham, she thought, and almost laughed with relief. Still, if she could sit a while longer and listen...
But they would notice, soon, if she didn't return. She stood carefully and picked her way back towards the door, groping blind in the dark. As she settled her hand on the chair arm to help her step over a bucket, her elbow spasmed, and she realized she was shaking from her ribs outwards. The Lord Regent wanted her out of the picture. Martin knew- something of importance.
She reached the door, then stopped short of opening it. She hunkered down in front of the keyhole and squinted, trying to see through. There was an Overseer, in full kit and mask. She thought it might be Windham, but there was no way of knowing.
He turned, slightly, and she saw the bottle of wine tucked beneath his arm.
But any number of Overseers could have overheard their conversation. She sucked down a few quick, deep breaths. If this was a trap-
If this was a trap, there was hardly any way out.
She turned the latch and stood, slipping from the closet and closing the door behind her. The Overseer nodded to her, then kept his eyes averted as she locked the door. It was only when she came to stand a few steps away that he held out the bottle to her. She took it, but did not release the key.
"Do you always have this?" she asked, pitching her voice low.
"Often."
"I'd like to give it to him personally."
"Do as you will." He moved off in the direction of a staircase that wouldn't lead to Martin's chambers. Callista watched him go, then dusted herself off and made for the hallway of doors.
The two watchmen were still hovering outside of the door. Callista straightened her shoulders and nodded to them when she came close. Neither looked particularly friendly or welcoming, and neither reached for the door. She had just reached out her hand for the latch when the door swung open, Hiram Burrows stalking out with his face bright red. She jumped back out of the way and watched him as he moved, without slowing, to the exit.
His guards followed.
When Burrows was gone, she turned back to Martin's office. Martin himself stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame with his arms crossed over his chest.
"A productive meeting, then?" she asked.
"A shame he couldn't wait for the wine," Martin responded, then shrugged and held out a hand. She passed the bottle to him, with the key tucked beneath it. He grinned and looked her over.
"A good choice," he said, then pushed away from the doorframe. "I'll keep it tucked away for our next meeting. Miss Curnow, shall I see you tomorrow to begin your denunciations?"
"I thought-"
"You're right, early morning would be best," he said, stepping back into his office. "I'll see you then."
The door shut. Callista was left alone in the hall, the red slash of fabric itching at her throat. Her shaking hadn't lessened. In the morning, she'd have to publicly denounce - in whatever way Martin recommended - her last remaining relative, the man who had raised her after she'd been orphaned. And after that, she could only hope that she'd finally earned enough trust to get some answers.
First, though, she'd have to survive a night knowing that she'd just stepped into uncharted territory.
The assistant to the future High Overseer, indeed.