Chapter 4

She'd taken the notebook on impulse. She'd felt it as she fell against him, and she'd had enough time, and his attention had been so focused on coddling her in that self-assured, arrogant way of his, that he hadn't noticed when she nudged the book from where he'd tucked it halfway into his pocket. Now she held the book tight to her chest as she stepped into the Hound Pits, making her way to a shadowed booth in the far corner.

Geoff had taken her here once or twice, she realized as she sat down, insulated from the outside world by the noise of the other patrons. She recognized the stained glass and the stretch of bar. She even recognized the sound of dogs snarling far off in the distance.

Shaking, she opened the cover of the book. Inside there were still only endless lines of gibberish. She flipped through it, heart beating in her throat.

Outside, the announcement system blared, but it was only the propaganda officer speaking. She was spared the recitation of her own guilt as she scanned each page.

She came to a section, at last, that held some of Martin's notes. He hadn't written in cipher himself, but his handwriting was almost illegible. She was bent close over it, peering at it, when a woman cleared her throat.

Callista looked up to see the barmaid, an older woman with dull auburn hair pulled back from her temples, looking down at her with her brows raised in question.

"Planning on getting anything, miss?" she asked.

Callista flushed. "Ah- yes." Quickly, she twisted around in search of a menu board.

"Draft or sugared wine?" the woman asked, tapping her toe. "They're on special today."

"Sugared wine," she said. "And, ah- just something light. For food."

"Pickled quail eggs, then."

Callista nodded, feeling helpless - and foolish - as the woman turned away. The tavern by her apartment usually brought around free sandwiches this early in the day, and was fine with patrons lingering a bit before they ordered any drink, but apparently, this close to the river, things were different. Even before dusk, the place was half-filled. She sank further into her booth, holding the notebook close to her as she returned to its pages.

There- something she could make out. A list of names, each followed by another name. The first column were clearly Abbey men. The others were harder to place. Some were men, some women, some sounded old while others sounded very young indeed. A few men had no names beside them - only numbers.

Costs?

She tried to think back to the Abbey, and the number of colors displayed on the walls. But there were far more in the book than there were in that hall. Then she noticed the marks. Martin had drawn small stars next to about six names, and then crossed out one. His ink was different from Campbell's, dark and fresh.

Frowning, she turned to another page.

As she perused the book, her food and drink arrived, and she nibbled and sipped with barely a thought. Here was another page with Martin's handwriting. The only words she could make out were Attano and contact and Burrows - and another number. She puzzled at it. Attano, the Royal Protector? The man imprisoned in Coldridge for the murder of the Empress?

What had Campbell been up to?

She slid her gloved fingers over the page, reading the gibberish and willing it to coalesce into something sensical. It refused, of course, and soon enough she put it down with a huff.

Picking at her food, she wondered what she'd find when she returned home.

Martin would likely have men waiting for her, she thought, and her apartment could very well have been destroyed. He'd be angry at her, surely. She'd tell him it was an accident, and remind him that she couldn't read it, anyway - and that it needed to be kept somewhere safe, not just in his pocket. Maybe he'd forgive her.

Or maybe her impulse towards secrecy and theft would get her re-educated by the Abbey.

As she drank her wine, she was reminded how very tired she was, how deeply exhausted. That was it- she could blame her exhaustion, her fugue state earlier, the tendency of those destroyed to seek out ways to ensure that destruction will come to an end, one way or another.

But if she could crack some of the code... she could use it against him, to protect herself. Or offer it to him.

As she was pondering, a large shadow fell across the table. She stiffened, looking up, expecting to find an Overseer's mask grinning down at her.

Instead, it was an older, thick-set man wearing a naval officer's jacket, his grey hair combed neatly.

"Curnow's niece?" he asked, his voice deep. His jaw was wide and his brow was narrow. It made him all the more imposing, seen from below.

She swallowed. "I don't-"

"He's an old friend," the man said.

"Oh. Then- yes, I suppose I am. Or was. Before-"

"I heard the announcement," he said, then sank into the seat across from her. "Wretched business. I was sorry to hear about it. He was a solid man."

She quickly slipped the notebook off the table and into the pouch she wore at her hip. It barely fit. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Farley Havelock. Until- very recently, I was an admiral. Your uncle served under me during his tour."

Callista blinked at him, wide-eyed. Farley Havelock, the man who'd been talking to Martin the night Campbell had been killed.

"He used to bring you here, when you were younger. Once or twice, anyway," Havelock continued. "I'm glad to see you're alright. Not everybody who makes announcements like that walks out of the Tower, you understand."

"Oh," she said, voice small.

Havelock worked his mouth a moment, as if trying to figure out what could be said, before he gestured at her picked-over meal. "It's on the house. In remembrance of a good man."

"Oh, thank you," she said.

"And if you ever need anything, I owe your uncle a favor."

Her brow drew together. "A favor?" Again? Another? And all for her protection? At least this time, she hoped it wasn't because of a man's death. The thought made her stomach churn. If Geoff had only looked to himself-

"It's from a long time ago, but I am an honorable man," Havelock said. Until very recently, he was an admiral, she thought, and with it came vague memories of talk of a massing of ships outside of the harbor, and some upheaval in the ranks-

But it hadn't been publicized. She knew no details.

He shifted uncomfortably. "Your announcement- you said you had delivered yourself to the Abbey."

"Yes."

"Do you know an Overseer Martin?"

"I'm- not sure," she said. "They all look the same, with those masks."

"Of course." He tapped his knuckles against the table, then stood. "Well, Miss Curnow - you are always welcome here. And I hope your uncle is safe, where he is - he's a good man."

The treasonous sentiment hung in the air as he left, entirely welcome and soothing. Callista let her head fall against the back of the booth. How much did he know? How much of his posturing was just hope mixed with the sudden impotence of being a navy man with the sea taken from him? She couldn't tell, but as she fished for the notebook once more - perhaps she should find another place to study it - she realized she was deeply grateful for him.

Her pockets held no coin.

It was late evening when she made her first breakthrough. She'd borrowed a pencil and a scrap of paper from the bar, and had copied out some of the cipher - and as she had, something about the kinesthetics of drawing it turned her brain slightly one way, then another, and soon, as she turned the paper about and manipulated it, the words began to make sense.

Attano, it read, there- and that was where she began, checking her work against Martin's. Attano out of Dunwall, it read, and contact by Rudshore, and a sum of coin she couldn't hope to comprehend with a note that read Burrows two-thirds.

Daud, it read.

Kaldwin, it read.

Girl, it read.

She closed the notebook, her piece of paper tucked inside, and put it away. Her hands shook. Her mind spun. She was half out of her mind with exhaustion and grief, and now fear took hold, fear and terror and astonishment, and she stared at the bar where Farley Havelock spoke with a patron, laughing heartily even while his small eyes darted about the room.

Maybe if she told him, the treasonous man who would rebel, it would set some kind of justice in motion.

Maybe he was a good man.

But she barely remembered him; the man she knew was Martin. He wouldn't question the source of the information, either, and maybe together they could...

She stood. She had to return to her home, and demand that whoever he'd left to wait for her allow her to see him. Heart pounding, she fished the notebook out and clasped it between her hands, too afraid of pickpockets to leave it hidden.

The walk from the river back to the Legal District was long and harrowing, her over-worked mind conjuring the Outsider in every shadow. On side streets she heard the cruel laughter she'd always associated with members of the Hatters or other gangs, then turned to find it was Watchmen. She waited for hands to reach from the darkness and grab her, or for wolfhounds to bite at her heels.

But she arrived at her apartment untouched, and she raced up the steps. She stepped on a rat's tail halfway up, and it squealed and tried to bite her, but she was up and past it. There were more of them, though, than there had been a day ago.

She hardly noticed.

Panting, she got to her door and fumbled for her key. At a touch of her hand to the latch, the door swung open.

A light burned inside.

Her muscles twitched and jumped as she went from plummeting headlong to creeping forward, uncertain. Somebody sat in the main space of her apartment. The light was too dim for her to make out his features.

"It's only me," Martin said. "You can close the door behind you, if you like."

She melted with relief, and closed the door, sagging back against it. The chair creaked as he rose from it and strolled over to her. He settled one gloved hand beside her head and leaned in, caging her with his body, and suddenly the tension was back, stiffening all her muscles until they screamed. He looked down the length of her, to where she cradled the notebook.

"At least you weren't foolish enough to lose it," he murmured.

"I cracked it," she breathed, pulse pounding in every inch of her, her cheeks bright and hot from the run. "I can decode it."

Martin didn't respond. He grew very still and very rigid, and his eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. Slowly, he reached for her with his free hand and plucked the notebook from her grasp.

"Don't ever steal from me again, Miss Curnow." His voice was low and rich, his tone edged with threat. He leaned in closer, trapping her body with his. "Not if you want this arrangement to work out. I can be a very generous man, and I can be a very cruel one."

"I cracked it," she repeated, lifting her chin, refusing to quail. "And there's something in there about paying Daud - and on the same page, it mentions the late Empress. And the Lady Kaldwin."

Martin made a low, strangled sound in his throat as he leaned his head forward against the wood of the door. She could hear his breathing, and it wasn't the same easy, composed rhythm as she was used to. She reached out to touch the forearm he had braced by her head, and found him trembling.

"You're sure?" he asked.

"I tucked my notes in. You can see for yourself."

He laughed, thinly. "You are a very clever, very naughty girl, Miss Curnow," he breathed in her ear. "I could have had you arrested for this. Or did you know that I wouldn't risk anybody else in my order getting their hands on that book?"

"I didn't think about it," she whispered, lips curling in a hysterical half-smile. "I just- saw an opportunity."

"What would your uncle think?"

"That I'm going to get myself killed at this rate."

"Smart man, your uncle," he said as he pulled away at last, taking the heat of his body with him. Callista found herself stepping away from the door, following him, though they gained an inch of distance between them.

Martin was looking at her with something very close to pride.

"Smarter woman," he added, then turned and went to her chair. He dropped into it, opening up the notebook on the page her notes propped open. He pulled out the paper and unfolded it, smoothing it over his knee.

Callista took a few deep, steadying breaths, then went to join him. She stood hovering at his shoulder, peering down.

"I went to a place called Hound Pits Pub," she said, "and I sat there for hours working at it."

"Havelock's place," Martin mused, but his voice was distant as he traced his finger over her work. "You have very nice handwriting, Miss Curnow."

"It's important for a governess," she replied.

"I'll have you write my dispatches, I think," he said with a soft chuckle. "... This is good work," he added, glancing up at her. "I think I see the logic, so I can replicate it. Though..."

Callista shook her head. "It's hardly safe here with me."

"No, I suppose not. And I can't have you in my offices all the time. People are already talking. There's been a few accusations that I'm not restricting the wanton flesh as much as I ought to be."

She flushed. "That's-"

"An understandable interpretation," he said, smirking. "Does the thought excite you, Miss Curnow?"

Her mouth went dry as she remembered what it had felt like to fall against him, and how his voice in her ear didn't make her scared so much as it made her alert and oriented only to him. "If you're to be High Overseer, we need to avoid those sorts of accusations," she said, voice hoarser than usual.

"If I'm to be High Overseer," he said, leaning back in his seat and gazing up at her, "I'll need to finish decoding the page with the list of names. I need to know whose strings I can pull. And I'd appreciate your help. I was working from things I knew, trying to derive rules working backwards, but if you can help me understand your method-"

"My method is going without sleep and suffering the loss of my last living relative," she replied, curtly.

His smile faded and he looked her over, frowning. "Going without sleep?"

"None last night, and very little the two nights before," she sighed. "Add sugared wine and the certainty that you'd have me found and killed-"

"I wouldn't do that," he said.

"No?"

"No," he said, pushing up from the chair. "I've found I quite like the idea of having your assistance. Even more when you do reckless but brilliant things like this." He waggled the notebook at her. "Though I'd appreciate more caution in the future."

"Of course," she said. "I... don't like the feeling of being hunted."

"Good that you learned that early on. Go on, sit. Or sleep, if you want. I'll work on this."

"Here?"

"If you'll allow it," he said, watching as she lowered herself gingerly into the chair. "I don't have the luxury of going to a pub, at least not in uniform. And I grow weary of my office and everybody who has come to offer their allegiances and test my weaknesses."

She considered, face creased by a light frown. She'd never shared this apartment with anybody - since she'd moved in, she hadn't brought any men home, or even spent a night sitting up with Geoff. Martin's very presence was surreal.

But the idea of being alone...

"I want something in return," she said, propping her elbow on the arm of the chair, pillowing her cheek in her hand.

He snorted. "You're not in the best bargaining position. I could still have you dragged in on theft charges."

"But you won't."

"... No," he said, chuckling dryly.

"And I think there's a fair chance I'll wake up to find most of my whiskey gone," she added.

"Hardly. What do you want?"

"Dispensation to leave the city for a day or two." She couldn't help her yawn, even though it closed her eyes and didn't help her look determined in the slightest.

Martin's footsteps were soft as he approached the chair. "Granted. Where to?" he asked, slipping a hand lightly behind the arm she wasn't leaning on. He nudged her up, then towards her little bed tucked in what wasn't so much a separate room as an alcove set off by a partial wall and some furniture.

"My family has - had - a house, west out of the city, overlooking the ocean. He sold it, but last I heard, a company or a barrister had it. It's unoccupied. And with the plague, it's probably unlet."

"Do you think Geoff is there?" Martin asked, letting go as she sat.

Her brow furrowed. "I... hadn't thought of that," she confessed. "I only wanted to go to have some space to think."

Martin hummed his assent, then knelt and caught one ankle in his hands. He eased her shoe off, gloved fingers brushing the arch of her foot. "If he's smart, he won't be there," Martin said as he worked, moving to her other foot. "So see it as a victory, if the house is empty."

She nodded, watching through half-lidded eyes as he stood. Her toes curled in her stockings.

"Go to sleep, Miss Curnow. I'll write your dispensation and have it delivered tomorrow morning. Your timing is perfect - with what you've given me tonight, I'll be a very busy man for the next few days before we enter conclave."

"Conclave?"

"Where the few of us who haven't pulled back from the High Overseer's seat go into conference with the High Oracle for however long it takes for them to see who will emerge victorious," he said, moving back into the main part of the room where she could only see him in brief glimpses. "There are rounds of voting, too - we all must reach a consensus, or leave."

She made herself remove her gloves. Then she paused, and forced herself to stand and gather her nightclothes, before moving towards the small washroom to change.

"Is it dangerous?" she asked, before shutting the thin door.

"Yes and no," came his muffled response. "But it's not anything you need to worry about."

"And my lessons, to prepare me to be your assistant?" she asked as she perfunctorily stripped out of her suit and corset and changed into her knee-length shift.

"Do what you can here. I'll let you know when it's safe to come work at the Abbey. Besides," he added, and she could imagine him waving a hand dismissively, "you've already proven how good of an assistant you'll be. You just need to get a bit more practiced."

When she emerged from the bathroom, he wasn't looking at her. He was ensconced in her chair once more, peering at the pages in the notebook, her notes spread out on his thigh.

"There's paper and pencil in the desk drawer," she offered.

He glanced up, with no noticeable reaction to seeing her so undressed. It made her feel at ease. "Good."

"Wake me if you're leaving," she said. "So I can lock the door after you."

She didn't mention that she had the only key tucked inside her loose fist, and that she'd sleep with it. It was a sensible precaution that, if he were a reasonably honest man, he would never know about.

"Of course," he said. "Now get some rest."

Callista smiled, muzzily, then went to her bed and settled down into it.

She closed her eyes and was rewarded with expansive, weightless darkness.