Chapter 5

Martin woke her sometime after midnight to let him out. She didn't hear most of what he said to her, but she went back to sleep knowing that he was pleased, excited, that his eyes had glittered and that the way he'd clasped her upper arm - where last she'd worn his color - had been fervent and trusting.

She went back to sleep vaguely pondering their strange circumstances, and how they seemed doomed to trust each other despite her - and, she suspected, his - aversion to placing faith in people.

When she woke again, it was late morning. The city was throbbing and alive outside her window, and it took her a moment of rubbing at her cheek and eyes to realize she'd been roused by the blare of the announcement system. The recording of her voice vibrated the windows, and she scowled and dragged herself from bed only because the banging and creaking of her pipes when the taps were on could drown it out a bit.

She washed and dressed and pulled her hair back, then walked a short circuit around her apartment. She stopped at the urns, touching one lightly. Should she take them out into the countryside? The thought was lovely, except that she knew that, so close to the ocean, the sea might infiltrate the urns despite their wax.

It was too risky, she decided.

By the door, she found a plain envelope on her floor. She crouched and picked it up, feeling the crackle of heavy paper inside of it. She opened it carefully with the tip of a knife, then pulled out the dispensation inside.

It allowed her two days outside of the city under the Abbey's permission. It would only take her ten miles from Dunwall - beyond that there were periodic border patrols operated by the other cities of Gristol, worried about the spread of the plague - but she didn't need more than that. It would get her out past the walls of the city, and it would allow her to hire a carriage.

It could also, she supposed, put her at risk - so when she packed a small bag, she made sure to fit her knife in it, as well as a pistol she hadn't practiced with in years. She had kept it cleaned and oiled, though, and as she fingered the grip, she couldn't help the shiver that went through her.

Geoff had given her the pistol, of course, and taught her how to use it.

She ate stale bread and drank faintly foul water, then looked around her room once more. Leaving it still seemed dangerous; it could be ransacked when she returned, or worse. But the drive to get outside the city was too great, and so she locked the door behind her and went down to the streets below. She set off for the western wall.

The journey to the edge of the city took the better part of two hours, even with the few, experimental public railcars that were running. At the guardpost, they studied her dispensation carefully, and one of the men eyed her. Both had to recognize her name, and she supposed the one watching her had known her uncle.

Neither bothered her, though. She left the city shortly after noon, and caught a horse-drawn carriage out into the country.

Horses had been banned from Dunwall when she was a girl, the city growing too mechanized to need them, but they were still necessary out where whale oil didn't power the lamps and where the roads were unpaved, making the installation and operation of railcars impossible.

She reached her family home as the sun was just beginning to set. The roar of the ocean was distinct and soothing as she walked the winding path to the house on the bluff. It was two stories, and technically smaller than Geoff's old townhouse had been, but it seemed gigantic out here, with the closest town half an hour away by foot. Its windows were covered in grime, but they were unbroken, and the plants that grew about the building and clung to its stonework had yet to undo the architecture in any meaningful way.

Her key still worked, and she nudged the door open.

The air inside was stale and dusty, and the house creaked and groaned with the wind outside and the weight of itself. She focused on every noise as she walked through each room, each hall, looking for any sign of a visitor - welcome or otherwise. But there was nobody; only moldering curtains and empty bedframes, only a few of which still held mattresses.

Geoff wasn't there, but neither was anybody else. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and went to the back door.

It opened up onto a patio that ran up to the edge of the bluff. The railing there, which her father had built, was warped and cracked now from the salt air. She didn't dare touch it, for fear of splinters. Instead, she sat down near the edge and drew her knees up to her chest, and stared down at the tide.

One of her cousins had died down there. She'd watched it happen. They'd been playing in the surf; Callista had been a few years older and should have been watching more closely, but she'd still only been a girl. Her brother was very sick at the time, and she'd been distracted, picking her way between the towering black rocks on the beach, looking at sea creatures trapped in pools of water, finding bits of shell and stone she could take to show her brother up in his room.

Her cousin, Delphinia, had gone into the water. She'd giggled and splashed, and she'd gone out to bob in the swells of the waves before they reached the shore. They all knew how to swim, and all of them had gone into the sea a hundred times or more, except for her aunt Viola who still held that the sea was an unholy space to be conquered, used, but never enjoyed.

Delphinia had been laughing until suddenly the laughter had stopped. She'd never so much as screamed Callista's name, and Callista hadn't known to turn from where she stood atop one of the smaller rocks, poking at barnacles. She never saw Delphinia's head go under, then crest the surface, then go under again.

It was only when she'd turned around to ask if Delphinia would like her to join her in the surf that she had realized that surf was empty, her cousin dragged out to sea.

There had been others on the shore that afternoon; Viola had been there to watch her dear daughter, and had shrieked and howled when she'd realized that her child wasn't just playing, but had disappeared beneath the waves, dragged out fast by a riptide none of them had known to expect. Something below the surface had given way, opening up a new underground chanel for the surf, creating a new sucking wound. Geoff had noticed Delphinia swiftly moving away from shore, faster than she could have swum, and had come running down to the shore, but he hadn't been fast enough to follow her, to save her.

Nobody had ever blamed Callista, who would have died if she'd seen and followed her cousin out - but Callista had spent years thinking of her cousin's silence, of the sudden change in the tides, and she'd thrown out all the stones and shells she'd collected that day, too afraid to bring death into her brother's sickroom.

He'd died a week later, anyway.

The tide was in, now, roaring at the bottom of the bluff. It had always been a foolish idea to play down there; the tide could rush in too fast, cutting off the exit, trapping whoever was left against the rocks and beating them against the stone until they died, until their blood stained the water an evanescent red. It hadn't mattered about the riptide. It hadn't mattered about the underwater chambers below the beach.

She turned away from the bluff and went back into the house, lighting the lamps that still had some oil left in them. She made herself an island of light in the kitchen. As she went in search of other lamps and fresh cans of oil, she found little things out of place. All were items her uncle had sold along with the property, trying to sweeten the deal and to lessen the burden he had to carry. A dresser with a few drawers pulled out an inch or two; a bedframe moved across the floor, its legs cutting grooves in the thick dust; a chest left unlocked that she had never been able to open.

It told a story. Her uncle had been here, gathering supplies. The pantry was nearly empty now, its cans of brined hagfish gone, and everything else thrown away or rotted years ago. Her uncle had gathered clothing, maybe mementos, definitely food, but soon after, or perhaps before, the Watch or the military had arrived. They'd searched the old, empty house. There had been no violence.

They'd all left.

As night fell, Callista climbed the stairs to what had been her room and listened to the creaking of the house as another coastal storm came in, light but insistent. The house rocked around her. She tested the mattress and found it damp and filled with mildew, then sighed and went to one of the linen closets. It, too, was filled with decay. It took over half an hour of searching before she found clean, dry blankets. She made herself a bed in the kitchen, and drifted off to sleep listening to the roar of the tide below.

In the morning, she heard footsteps.

She was sitting out on the patio once more, eating out of the last can of jellied eel. The food was slimy and tasted only of salt, but she hadn't eaten in nearly a day. She washed it down with old sour beer she'd found in the cellar, and barely noticed the footsteps until they crossed the threshold from the kitchen to stone-paved deck that jutted out above the cove.

Callista tensed, then turned.

Geoff stood a few feet away, and while his eyes were distant and haunted, his mouth broke into a wide grin. He came a few steps closer.

"How did you get out of the city?" he asked, his voice hoarse from disuse.

Slowly, Callista rose to her feet. "I have dispensation. From the Abbey. Uncle-"

"Good girl. Smart girl," he breathed, then crossed the space between them and drew her into his arms.

"Why are you still here?" she asked, voice trembling. Her eyes closed. She couldn't manage the surge of relief she felt, or the accompanying surge of fear. It was so dangerous for him to be here-

"Come with me," he said.

She frowned against his chest where he'd tucked her close.

"Come with me," he repeated, bowing his head against the crown of hers. "I should have taken you with me that night, but it would have been too difficult to get us both out. Now we can both go. If we can get to Pottershead-"

"That's hundreds of miles away!" she breathed, drawing back and frowning.

"You're young, you're strong enough," he said. He pulled away, clasping her shoulders with both hands. "We can get a ship to Serkonos there."

She shook her head. "The border the other cities have set up- they won't let us through."

"Tell them you work for the Abbey."

"And I'm going to Pottershead? Maybe if we went towards Whitecliff, but- but I don't actually-"

"We can get there. Come with me, Callista."

He stared at her, desperately, his hands growing tighter on her arms.

Callista closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, she was alone on the floor of the kitchen, the sun barely risen. Her arms ached from being pillowed against wood, but when she rolled up her sleeves she found no bruises.

She was alone.

Geoff had left days ago.

Sighing, she got to her feet and made one last tour of the house before gathering her things and beginning the journey back to Dunwall.

The tears never came during the carriage ride back to Dunwall, even though she was alone at the time and so could have let free the intermittent heaving of her chest or the tightening of her throat. When she arrived, her face was as narrow and wan as always. The guards looked at her with pity, no doubt wondering why anybody would return to the city, but she ignored it and passed back into the hulking mass that had become her home.

She was met by two Overseers with a private railcar. She half-expected to see Martin inside, but it was empty.

"Have they gone into conclave yet?" she asked, looking at one of the masked men.

"No," he replied. "At midnight."

"Then take me to Holger. I'd like to speak with Overseer Martin, about my trip out. I have... news about Captain Curnow."

He gestured to the car. "He's waiting for you."

Callista nodded, then stepped up into the car with her small satchel of belongings, settling in with her head leaned back against the seat.

The trip was short the railcar eating up the miles between the wall and Holger. As it took her into the heart of Dunwall, she found herself relaxing. It had been a frightening dream, seeing her uncle and hearing him talk about fleeing. She didn't want to run. Dunwall, for all that it had taken her years to adjust to its smog and its narrow streets and its hidden horrors, was her home.

She wanted to bring Geoff back, not run with him to the far corners of the world.

When they reached Holger, she stepped out into a dark grey world, where the sun was blotted out almost entirely. It was impossible to tell what time of day it was, except that it wasn't night. She followed her escorts into the square, then up towards Martin's offices. Eyes followed her. She didn't wear black this time, or Martin's band. Did they think she was no longer his assistant, or were they looking for some weakness they could use to take her out of the game?

She was too tired to think about it. She knocked at Martin's office door, and quickly slipped inside when he called her in.

Martin rose from his desk as she shut the door behind her, and he threw her a quick smile as he lifted the bottle of wine she'd brought up the other night from where it sat on the edge of his desk and set about uncorking it. "I'm glad to see you back, Miss Curnow. Was your trip restful?" His hand worked nimbly against the bottle, and she watched them free the cork from the glass.

"It was... enlightening," she said, coming closer to him. When he held out glass for her, she took it and held still as he poured her a measure. "And you? Have you made progress?"

"Yes. Your help has been invaluable." He filled his own glass, then lifted it and clinked it against hers. "To the conclave," he said, then tipped his head back and drained half his glass.

Callista was more moderate, sipping at her wine and trying to appreciate its qualities. She hadn't had proper, unadulterated wine in years, though, and she only vaguely recognized it as good.

"You look haunted, Miss Curnow," he said, and she lifted her head again.

"... I saw signs that my uncle had been there. At the house."

"I'll do what I can to turn people's attention away from it, then."

"It's too late. It had also been searched. There weren't any signs of violence, though." She sank, slowly, into the chair in front of his desk. "I almost thought I saw him, once - but I think he's long gone."

"He made it through the hardest part - getting out of the city. I'm sure he'll be fine." Martin leaned his hip against the edge of his desk, looking down at her. He wore a small frown.

"Did you... set up a way to contact him? When you helped him leave the city?" she asked, looking up at him with what felt like painfully wide, vulnerable eyes.

"I didn't help him leave the city," Martin said, voice quieting. "So no. I don't know where he's gone."

She grimaced, bowing her head. "A bit much to hope for, I suppose."

Martin set his wine aside. He leaned forward, catching her chin beneath one finger and tilting it back up. His eyes - a very pale, piercing blue - were fixed on hers. "You are safe here. Always remember that. And when I am High Overseer, I will do what I can to find your uncle, if you want him to be found."

"You owe him?" she asked with a faint, tired laugh.

"No. I owe you." His lips curled. "Your help has been invaluable. Two of my opponents have dropped out of consideration."

"I'm glad," she said, and even as she dropped her gaze again, she could feel herself strengthened, just enough to keep breathing. He owed her. That was a good place to be.

He smiled, then let his hand drop. He leaned back, considering her, then rose and circled around her chair. "Let me take your mind off things, Miss Curnow," he said, settling his hands on her shoulders. "The last week has been a nightmare for you, I know."

She made a small sound as he began to knead at her muscles, hands slow and firm. She tensed under his touch, even as a small pool of heat formed in her belly. His fingers dug in. A flare of pain rippled from her shoulder down her arm, and she gasped.

The crushing pressure on her mind stilled.

"Are you okay?" Martin asked, voice soft.

"... Yes," she said. "Yes, I am."

He pressed in on the muscle again, which jumped then turned rock solid beneath his touch. He massaged his thumb along it, then paused. Slowly, he began to dig it in.

"And now?" he asked, his voice taking on a lower note.

The pain began again, sparking from her shoulder down to her elbow. It obliterated everything in its path, reducing her to that one bright line of pain. It was a relief, and her breath hissed from between her teeth as she straightened up, pressing into his touch.

"Yes," she said, more firmly.

"I have an idea," he said. "Do you trust me?"

She craned her head back, looking up at him. His eyes were half-lidded, and he looked at her with the utmost concentration. There was nothing lascivious there, nothing wanting, only complete focus.

"Sometimes," she said.

"Would you trust me if I said I know a way to take your mind off things, that is very effective but not entirely gentle?"

There was still no sensual glint in his eye, no voluptuous smile. Her shoulder ached where he'd pressed into it, and she rolled the joint.

"No habber weed," she said, and that, at last, produced a bark of a laugh from him.

"No, not that. Do you trust me?"

She lifted a brow. "What is it?"

"I've found it doesn't work half so well the first time if you're expecting it."

Callista searched his face for any threat of violence, and found none. There was only that concern, that interest. Slowly, she nodded. "I trust you."

"Then stand up," he said, removing his hands from her shoulders entirely. "Stand up, lean over my desk, and balance your weight on your palms or your forearms. Whichever is easier. Mind the wine."

She had forgotten her glass, and set it down with trembling hands next to his. She watched as he circled to the edge of his desk and picked up both glasses, taking them to the sideboard. Swallowing, she stood and bent forward, her knees closing together tightly on instinct. Her elbows bumped against the wood, and she realized she was shaking.

The image came to her of Martin pinning her to the desk, kissing at her throat, dragging her breeches down, and the force of it made her close her eyes and press her hands harder against the wood. It was an enticing thought. A stupid, foolish thought to be sure, but enticing, and-

Martin's hand came down hard on her ass, and she yelped, eyes flying open. He lingered there, fingers rubbing lightly at the swell of her hip, until she'd lowered down from where she'd risen up on her toes. Without a word, he pulled back and struck her again.

The blows weren't hard; they didn't have the force to send her hips snapping into the desk, or to even move her body. But they were firm, and repetitive, and by the sixth she could feel her skin beginning to sting. She held her breath at first, then began to gasp, sucking in deep breaths.

Martin said nothing, only alternating which hand he used, which side of her ass he struck. Callista stretched forward, curling her fingers over the far edge of his desk. Her awareness narrowed down to the smack of his gloved hand on her clothed rear, to the sting and throb of her skin, to the way her heart seemed to pound and migrate down into the pit of her belly.

Nothing else mattered.

Her mind cleared. Gone were thoughts of Geoff, or of her small apartment, or of a little black notebook that spoke of the Lord Protector and the Knife of Dunwall and the child Empress. She barely heard the sounds she made, the whimpers and gasps, until they turned to shuddering sobs that she didn't know the origin of. Martin's blows fell off, coming slower and slower, softer and softer, until they stopped entirely.

She crumpled forward, weight supported by his desk, face pressed to the wood as she cried.

It was the painful, wrenching sort of sobbing that drew her closer and closer to peace. She knew the sort, and she let herself linger in it. There was no room in her for thoughts of all her pains and fears, only for the expulsion of it.

Her body shuddered with each new burst of tears, her eyes swelling and her cheeks filling with blood. Her fingers curled into the wood, her toes dug into the worn leather of her shoes. When she slid down to her knees, Martin caught her. He lifted her in his arms and carried her over to the small couch in front of the hearth and settled her there. He brushed strands of hair from in front of her face, then left her alone for a moment.

He returned with a small plate of pastries and a glass of wine, setting them before her on the low table before the fire.

Her sobbing slowly quieted to just the constant hitching of her breath, and he seemed to be reassured by that. When she only began shaking every two or three breaths, when the tears began to dry before they renewed, he went to his desk and pulled out his little black notebook. She watched him through the shade of her eyelashes, then nestled down against the cushions of the couch and focused only on her breath.

Eventually, the last of her trembling left her. She opened her eyes and stared at the small, glowing hearth. Slowly, she sat up and nibbled a pastry, swallowed down another mouthful of wine.

Her ass ached as she moved. She imagined pulling down the fabric of her knickers and seeing red handprints left there. The thought made her shiver, and she glanced over to Martin.

He looked as if nothing had happened. He worked diligently, and only glanced up after she'd stared at him for the better part of a minute.

"How are you feeling, Miss Curnow?" he asked.

"Better," she said.

He inclined his head, faintly. "I'm glad. You should return home and rest. The conclave-"

"It's in a few hours, isn't it?"

"It's very soon, yes. I won't be able to see you while it's in progress."

Callista drew herself up from her seat, taking her wine and dainties with her. "How long does it last?" she asked as she took careful, stiff steps towards the sideboard.

"The shortest ever was two days. The longest was a month."

The plate clattered as she set it down - she was shaking again. "A month-"

"It won't take a month," he assured her. "And I'll send for you the moment we're out. I promise."

She looked at him, with his finely starched uniform, his bleached collar, his carefully combed hair. He would emerge triumphant - she was sure. A line from her dream came back to her, Geoff telling her that she could use her connections with the Abbey to get out of the city, to get out of Gristol.

Her thoughts went to Martin's hand, the unrelenting blows that should have been a punishment but had been a salvation.

Shouldn't she want to get out?

"If I don't come?" she asked, softly.

He looked at her a moment, then leaned back in his seat and turned his attention back to the book. "I'll be disappointed. And you will have to be very good about never telling anybody about our secrets."

"I thought I was in too deep," she said, wrapping her arms around herself.

He glanced up again, as if unable to help himself. "Are you?"

Callista took a deep breath. "... I am, yes."

"Then I'll send for you. Take care of yourself, Miss Curnow."

She thought she saw his shoulders relax, just a little.

"Thank you," she said, then let herself out of his office.