Chapter 3

Callista knelt in front of the small funerary urns, arranged on the uneven wood of the table tucked by her pantry. There hadn't been a better place for them, and she missed how stately and important they had looked like on her uncle's mantle. But as far as she could tell, they were untouched- and that was the only thing that mattered.

Two Overseers had brought them by the night before, hours after she'd returned from Holger. She'd entertained suspicions that perhaps their contents had been emptied and replaced with some other nameless person's remains, as if she'd never know the difference, but she'd checked the wax seals along the top and they were all just as she'd remembered them. No corrupting ocean air would get in and wet the ashes, turning them to meaningless sludge, and whoever was inside the urn had been inside for years.

The sun was rising outside her window, though the light wouldn't filter down between the close-packed buildings for another hour or more. She was already dressed for the day, in the same black suit she'd worn before, this time with her red blaze wrapped around her upper arm. It couldn't scratch at her skin there, and she could almost ignore it.

Her escort would arrive shortly. Along with the urns, the couriers had brought a brief message from Martin. A railcar would take her not to Holger but to Dunwall Tower, close to dawn. She had reasoned during her sleepless night while she paced and sat before the remains of her parents that the trial to come was for her own protection. It went beyond proving herself for Martin's employ - it was a bid for safety from the retaliation of the Regent and the Abbey. It would preserve her as nothing else could.

When the knock at her door came, she stood with creaking knees and crossed the tiny expanse of the room. She opened the door to see two masked Overseers looking back at her, and her gaze darted between the matching features of their masks, sculpted lifetimes ago and cast in bronze. They must be heavy, she thought as she opened the door enough for them to see how bare her room was - no heresy there - then shut it behind her and locked the door.

They said nothing as they led her down the narrow staircase, sidestepping the rats that had begun to make homes beneath the landings.

The light outside was watery and thin, but it was the first true light she'd seen since her uncle had left. It grew in weighty symbolism the more she thought about it, so she kept her eyes fixed ahead as they made their way from the narrow, twisted sidestreets to the main thoroughfare, large enough and arterial enough to have railcar tracks. One of the great metal contraptions sat quietly, its doors closed, it contents unknown.

This, she thought, would be a great way to kill somebody. Anybody who disappeared getting into a railcar would never be asked after. Their abductor would be too rich for it to matter.

But when the door opened, it was only Martin sitting inside, his mask nowhere to be seen. He beckoned her, and she climbed up the steps and settled on the plush bench across from him. The door closed, and they were left alone in dim electric light.

"Your men?" she asked, glancing to the door.

"Will begin their patrol from here."

"Are they here to search my apartment?"

Martin chuckled. "No. From what I understand, there's not much to search. No, there's a suspected witch living two buildings over from yours - they're going there."

"Combining an escort with a witch hunt," she said, grimacing. "Do they ever get their orders mixed?"

"Sometimes," he said, and reached for a side compartment. "Would you like a drink, Miss Curnow? To steel you for what's ahead?"

The car lurched into motion, and she held very still, tense and watchful, until she adjusted to the jolting acceleration.

Martin cocked his head. "Is this your first time in a car?"

"I haven't ever had the pleasure, no," she said. Her knees were pressed tight together, and her words were clipped. She'd spent many hours thinking about what she'd heard from the closet, and many more thinking of the danger she was in. The High Overseer was one the most powerful men in the Empire for a reason, after all.

She wasn't sure why she'd hoped for him to be a simple, pious man, or even a good one.

Martin pulled a bottle of brandy from the compartment, and Callista felt something else sink inside of her. If he'd had the bottle of wine from the night before, it would have been a nice gesture - one of openness, a sign that they had a moment to talk. Instead, it was only a drink.

"I don't want anything," she said as he reached for a glass.

He paused, considering her, then returned everything to the compartment, closed it, and reached for his pocket instead. He extracted a folded page and held it out to her between two fingers.

"Talking points," he said. "Your denunciation will be recorded, so its imperative that you say enough and not too much. These should help."

Callista stared at the page. "Recorded-"

"By Burrows' man - the one who runs the broadcasts."

Her world narrowed. "It's going to be broadcast-"

"I believe I said this would be a public denunciation?" he said, voice light. He waved the sheet in front of her.

Grimacing, she snatched it from him and unfolded it, smoothing it across her thigh.

She scanned the text, written in small, cramped penmanship. It was surprisingly simple. There were no lies, and only the most basic of truths. Still, every mention of treason and heresy stabbed at her, and when she'd read the whole thing over twice, she folded it and set it aside.

"Is there anything else?" she asked, voice chill in stark contrast to the heat in her brain.

Martin had settled back in his seat, one ankle propped on his knee. He had a new bit of red fabric around his waist.

"There's a slight chance Burrows will want to speak with you," he said.

"You've satisfied him that I'm not one your whores, then?" The words came out with unintended venom, fast and hot, melting the chill to sodden droplets.

Martin only shrugged. "I certainly did my best to convince him. I was wondering if you'd heard that part of the conversation. What else did you hear?"

"That you know secrets that the Regent would rather you didn't. That you met with a man who wants to overthrow the Empire. That I'll know only what I need to know."

He chuckled. "And may that always differ from what Burrows thinks you know. Obviously, I'd like him to not know that you were listening in. But I'm glad you heard all the relevant parts - and read between the lines. After all, I never told him that I knew anything."

"A fool could've seen that you were just avoiding saying the words."

"Then he is less than a fool."

"I don't understand why you wanted me there," she said, flushing.

"Because," he said, sitting forward, "I'd like to not have to hide in front of my assistant. That makes you worse than useless - it makes you a problem."

"It seems more of a problem if you don't hide and then I tell others what I've seen," she said, turning to look at the high, slit window. His gaze felt uncomfortably heavy.

"Oh, of course. I'd very much have to trust you, and have that trust satisfied. So, Miss Curnow, hearing what you did yesterday - will you stay with me?"

Her attention jerked back to him. "I have a choice?"

"For now, yes. I wasn't being circumspect just for Burrows' sake - you'll find you don't know anything concrete enough to threaten me." He waved a hand, absently. "What will somebody say, if you go to them and tell them the man who would be High Overseer spoke privately with the Lord Regent, and they quarrelled, and they know secrets? Whoever you told - if you were lucky - would laugh and pat your head and say of course, that is the way the world works.

"Which is all to say - you have a choice. You can't hurt me, so if you choose to leave, I won't stop you. Like I said at your uncle's, you've created an interesting opportunity for the both of us, but you can always run."

Callista settled her hand over the folded paper. "After I do this," she said.

"You'll run?"

"I'll make a decision."

Dunwall Tower was incredible in its lofty majesty and in its endless patrols of guards and soldiers. Martin made an offhand comment about the coming visit of General Turnbull, but Callista barely marked it. She was caught, instead, between exhaustion, indecision, and dread as, accompanied by the escort that had met them at their car, they mounted the steps to the great entry hall, then turned towards a side door. Through it she could hear the crackling of arcing electricity.

The door opened to reveal a staircase around a shaft of open air that glowed and smelled of lightning on a dry day. Ropes of electricity occasionally crested the banister, and she could feel her hair beginning to stand on end. Callista watched, silent and tight-lipped, as their escort called down to whoever operated the great, sparking contraption to power it down.

"A prototype from Sokolov," the escort said, with a wicked grin. "Undefeatable."

"What does it do?" Martin asked.

"Turns a man to ash."

Callista grimaced and followed them up a winding flight of stairs, wondering if Sokolov, whoever he was, had considered the great usefulness of removing the process of funeral and cremation. It was certainly faster, if more terrible.

They reached the top of the stairs and stepped out onto a platform that was filled with metal machines with arrays of buttons and blinking lights. Across from the platform hung a massive portrait of Burrows. Callista looked around the space, which was lit only by a single bulb, and fought the urge to wrap her arms around herself.

There would be only a small audience for her speaking, she told herself. The whole city would hear her words, but the only people here to watch her say them were the escort, already bored, and Martin, and the man who ran the broadcasts. He was fiddling with something hidden by an array of metal boards held up at eye-level.

Callista rubbed at the creased paper in her hand.

"You must be Miss Curnow," said the man from behind the metal boards. It was the same voice she'd heard intermittently over the last month or so, since the broadcasts had begun; it was strange to hear him without the lead-in blaring. He leaned out from behind the boards. He was a normal-looking man, tall and thin.

She'd always imagined that he would be plump and well-dressed because of his usefulness to the state, but he looked harried. Worn. Like the men who lived in her building and went to the slaughterhouses every day.

"Come on, it's ready for you. Do you have something prepared to read from?"

"I do," she said, not moving.

"You don't have to get it right the first time," he said, "but we only have a few reels to work with. Notes will help."

"I'll get it right the first time."

He glanced behind her to Martin. Callista didn't turn to check his expression. Instead, she closed her eyes a moment, apologized to Geoff without words, then took a deep breath and went to the recording area.

She found a board set aside from the others and close to the microphone that had clips to hold papers in place. She carefully unfolded Martin's notes, glanced at them, then slipped them into the tabs. Her heart raced. Her breathing felt strange, though her chest didn't hitch or shudder. She felt bowed down, too tired to flee, too determined to do anything but move forward.

"Ready?" the man asked. There was an unexpected gentleness to the word, but when she looked up, his expression was impassive.

Callista nodded.

He reached forward and tapped a switch.

The microphone blinked on. The propaganda officer watched her intently. Leaning against the far wall, Martin glanced at her and offered her the faintest smile.

Callista took a deep breath.

"This is Callista Curnow speaking, niece of Captain of the Watch Geoff Curnow. Captain Curnow stands accused of murdering High Overseer Thaddeus Campbell on the 23rd day of the Month of Seeds. On the night of the 23rd day of the Month of Seeds, Captain Curnow came to my apartment. He confessed to me that he had done a violent and wretched thing. He confessed that he was a heretic and a murderer. I cast him out of my house and on the next day I delivered myself to the Abbey of the Everyman.

"I accuse Captain Curnow of murdering the High Overseer on that date. I accuse Captain Curnow of high treason. I accuse Captain Curnow of heresy. I disown him from my lineage."

Her voice began to crack, but no tears welled in her eyes. For a moment, she felt only a flare of anger - at Thaddeus Campbell, at Burrows, at the propaganda officer, at Martin, and at Geoff. Geoff, who had been foolish enough to kill a man who would be missed, a man who mattered. Geoff, who had left her alone.

"Captain Curnow, the man who was once my uncle, has been branded an enemy of the state. Do not give safe harbor to him. Do not render any assistance to him. To do so will be an offence punishable with hard labor, imprisonment, or death. Any individual with knowledge of his whereabouts or additional acts of treason he has committed is advised to report to the City Watch or the Abbey of the Everyman. A reward of fifty thousand gold coins is offered to anybody who delivers Captain Geoff Curnow to the custody of the state, alive or dead."

She fell silent, eyes burning, face tight. The propaganda officer stepped forward and switched off the microphone, then crouched to take the reel from its recording bed. She stepped back mechanically, watching him. The broadcast hadn't gone out yet. Nobody but the room had heard it. If she destroyed the reel-

Callista turned away as he loaded it into the machine that would broadcast her denunciation to all of Dunwall. She closed her eyes as it began to spin, and as her voice, high and thin, slid from the speakers and wrapped around her throat.

She only hoped that her uncle was already long gone.

Martin's footsteps were loud and steady, but they couldn't drown out the sound of her voice. Still, she struggled to focus on them, then on the warm, light touch of his fingertips against her elbow. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

He was looking to their escort. "Will that be all?" he asked. At the man's nod, he turned back to her with a faint smile, then dropped his hand and went to the head of the stairs.

Callista followed.

Her voice grew fainter as they left the platform behind, and it disappeared entirely as they stepped into the receiving hall. It was only a blessed moment of freedom, though; as they stepped into the yard, with its white stone and manicured gardens, her words echoed and bounced and boomed across the space. She kept her chin up and her eyes fixed straight ahead as Martin led her back towards the car.

She came to, as if awakening from sleep, on the plush seat with the railcar already moving beneath her. She didn't remember entering the car, or sitting. Callista blinked, frowning, and looked around.

"Good, you're back," Martin said.

"What happened?"

"Sometimes," Martin said, "the mind seems to shut off to shield us from pain." Glass clinked as he pulled the brandy and glass from the sideboard and poured her a finger's worth. "I've seen it before. How are you feeling?"

She grimaced. "I don't know."

He held out the glass for her, and she took it. "You did well, in there. Better than I had hoped. I don't think you left any room for doubt - your anger came through quite clearly."

"Good," she said.

She'd felt this way before. The recollection came slowly, and it didn't soothe her in the slightest. She'd moved through life without noticing what went on around her once or twice before - after her mother's death, her brother's. In her deepest grief, when she was worn down to almost nothing, everything else fell away.

It was easier that way. Martin was right.

"My uncle was a good man."

The words hung in the close air of the car. She swirled the brandy in her glass, then watched the surface jump as vehicle jerked, hitting a rail transition with too much force. Martin said nothing, and even with the sounds of the car muffled by the fine upholstery, she couldn't make out the sounds of his breathing.

Callista raised the glass to her lips and drained it in one burning, overwhelming swallow.

She lowered it to find Martin watching her, his expression softened. "I believe you," he said. "I let him go for a reason, Miss Curnow."

"So you were there," she said, sagging in relief.

"Of course I was. I assumed you knew already. That he'd told you he'd met an Overseer, begged for his help- that the Overseer would help you too. As I said, Miss Curnow - I owe him. The debt was created the moment he killed Campbell, and I told him as much."

"He told me very little," she said, staring at her empty glass. "I think he was trying to protect me. I didn't even know he'd killed a man before you told me, or that he'd been at the Abbey that night."

"He arrived unscheduled - their meeting wasn't for another five days," Martin said.

Callista lifted her head.

"It was past midnight - Campbell was with his whores. The delay in rousing him - finding him at all, since nobody was supposed to know where he was - wouldn't have been enough to set your uncle off, I think, but there had been an... incident involving his men, and several Overseers. It was part of an escalating series of clashes. I'm sure your uncle told you, at least, that the Watch doesn't appreciate the Abbey?"

"He told me. He told me to be careful around the Abbey, so as not to make myself a convenient target - that some Overseers might look for the opportunity."

"Your uncle understood quite a bit." Martin leaned forward and poured her another splash of brandy. "Some of us, on both sides I'm sure, looked at the alliance between Burrows and Campbell as a good sign. The Abbey is strongest with the support of the Watch, and vice versa. The Watch knows the city, and the Abbey can handle the heretics. But most saw it as opportunity for outright competition. If Burrows trusted Campbell, then the Abbey would prove Burrows didn't need the useless Watch. It was petty, and simple, and foolish. It's gotten more than a few men on both sides killed."

"I see."

"And then," Martin said, sitting back with a sigh, "there was the problem of your uncle being a good man."

Callista frowned, cradling the glass in both her hands.

"He didn't trust Burrows, or Campbell, and there's quite a bit going on in his company that I'm sure he hated. Payoffs, blackmail... what was your uncle's opinion on the plague?"

"That it's horrible, and frightening," she said. "... But that half the places he was ordered to cordon off weren't affected by it."

Martin chuckled, dryly. "Exactly. Your uncle is a good man, Miss Curnow, and the people in charge of this city aren't. He was losing men, and respectability, because of Burrows' policies and that alliance. He went to Campbell about a single incident - something about a Watchman's daughter being dragged off as a witch despite being the most pious girl he'd ever known - and of course that must have gotten to him."

"He must have thought of me."

Martin nodded, slowly. "And Campbell was unavailable, then arrived smelling of cunt and perfume-"

"And my uncle killed him."

Callista stared at her brandy, then held it out to Martin. He took it from her, drained the glass, then put it away.

"And you were there."

"Only barely. I'd just returned from that incident with Havelock. I found your uncle alone in that room with a still-warm corpse, and I helped him get out."

"Out of the goodness of your heart?"

Martin snorted. "No. Out of gratitude, for getting Campbell out of the way." He canted his head, eyes narrowing as he considered her.

She returned his gaze, unwaveringly, too overwhelmed to respond.

She watched as Martin shifted, reaching one gloved hand into his pocket. "And because that gave me an opportunity to search Campbell's jacket- and find this," he said, pulling out a small book - the same small book she'd seen him reading the day before.

Wordlessly, he held the book out to her.

Callista looked at it, pressing her hands firmly against her thighs.

"Am I in too deep to turn back?" she asked, slowly lifting her head.

"If you were anybody else, yes. But I trust you this far. Take the book, though, and..." He shrugged. "Things get more interesting."

Callista looked back down to the soft leather cover of the book. She could leave it, and the car, and Martin. She could take her chances out in a Dunwall that was growing more bleak than ever, with plague eating at its edges - and where she was a free woman.

Or she could take the book and damn herself with knowledge too great for her, linking herself and her loyalty to an arrogant man whose cleverness terrified her, and who wanted - too much - for her to trust him.

"You trust me enough for this?" she asked.

"You are your uncle's niece," he said. "You're a good woman, Miss Curnow."

"And that makes you trust me?"

"I suppose it does." He smiled at her, and wagged the notebook at her. He lifted it an inch, tilted it back towards him. "But I understand."

"No," she said. "Give it to me."

Martin met her gaze, his wolfhound's smile curling the corners of his mouth. He leaned close as he pressed the book into her hands. "I'm very glad you chose me," he murmured, his voice plucking at her spine and making her shiver to her fingertips. She curled her fingers around the notebook, then cracked open the cover as he sat back.

She looked over the lines of tight, cramped scribbling, and found no words at all.

Only code.

"Campbell encrypted its contents, unfortunately," Martin said. "It's proving difficult to find the cipher, but I've been making progress."

"You don't know what's in it," she said, wonderingly, then looked up at him with a sharp glare. "You were trying to draw the Regent out!"

He laughed. "I wasn't about to tell him I didn't know yet! That would have gotten me hanged, or worse."

"Does he know about the book, though?" she asked, closing it and holding it up. "You just tucked it in your desk drawer. He could have-"

"He doesn't know it's a book. Campbell kept secrets from everybody. And besides, I usually keep it on my person, or safely hidden. Once I break the code, I'll store the information elsewhere. Give me some credit, Miss Curnow."

Her sudden flare of panic and outrage died down to a smoldering pile of coals, leaving her heaving for breath.

"But I'm glad to know you care," he added.

She tossed the book at him. He caught it.

"What you do affects both of us now," she said, looking away as she tried to school her expression back into some semblance of control. "I was taught to protect myself."

The car jolted once more, then screeched to a halt, throwing her forward. Martin caught her, easily, his arms folding around her as he took the force of her fall against his chest.

"They're having trouble remembering where to stop for your sidestreet," he murmured, breath warm against her ear. "Maybe you should sit on my side, next time - that way when they stop suddenly you go into the couch, and not across the aisle."

She lifted her head. She had a hand braced against his chest, which was broad and firm, the sensation of being held against him far from the comforting solidity that had been embracing Geoff. One of her knees had managed to land on the seat between his legs, but the rest of her was crumpled, relying on him to hold her up.

This close, she could see the pores of his skin, and a spot where he'd nicked himself shaving, just by one curved ear.

"I'll think about it," she murmured, as she pushed herself up. Martin let go of her. The door to the car opened, and as Martin stepped out, she took the opportunity to straighten her clothing.

He handed her out onto the street gently.

"When do you need me next?" she asked, feeling at the red band around her arm. It had slipped somewhat, down to her elbow. In the future, she'd have to pin it.

"Tomorrow, I'd assume, if only to get your education started," he said. "I'll send somebody. And Miss Curnow?"

She lifted a brow. "Yes?"

"I liked the red around your throat more. But it's your choice," he said, then hopped back into the railcar.

As it squealed away, Callista exhaled.

And let Campbell's notebook slip from where she'd slipped it inside her sleeve, held in place by her red armband, and into her hand.

She had, she supposed, maybe ten minutes before he realized it was gone.

She set off towards the river.