Chapter 6

The door to her apartment building was barred with a bright red clamp that stood as tall as a man and that shone in the lamplight. The walls around it were painted with the flash of paint she'd seen more and more often, on more and more doors.

Plague.

A tall, thin man with a pinched face stood a short distance off, his fine clothing in stark contrast to the rundown tenements on the street. He spoke with several men of the Watch, reading from a notepad, hardly looking at them for how high his nose and chin were lifted in distaste. One of the landlords, then, coming to see what was happening to his investment?

She knew better than to fling herself before the Watchmen milling about in the streets around the building. Where they listened to the man with a starched cravat and money in his pockets, they would mark her as infected for having lived inthe building. They would ship her off to Rudshore, where she heard treatment centers were being set up. But what treatment centers could exist in the newly-flooded district?

The thought occurred to her to go to the thin man and request his help, using all the grace she'd had to learn to work with the rich merchants of the city, but her luck and skill felt worn dangerously thin, and she refused to put herself any closer to the Watch.

So Callista kept her distance, the glorious relaxation Martin's work had given her evaporating, replaced with a bone-deep dread.

Holger would be locked down now, even if it wasn't an hour-long walk without a railcar. She couldn't get there in time. Martin was shut away from her now, and she was left with the knowledge that not only had she lost the ashes of her parents, she'd also lost her only shelter. She had nothing except for the small satchel she still carried from her trip out of the city. Desperately, she felt for the butt of her pistol inside of it. Her fingers closed around it, and she sighed in relief.

There were several explanations for the sudden seizure of her home. The first was the simplest, the most trusting - that somebody in the building had begun bleeding from the eyes. That here, in one of the city's richer districts, it mattered when even the poorest people crowding at the edges in their tiny tenements fell ill, if only to spare their landlords from exposure.

The second was more cynical - that an ally of the late High Overseer, in a position of power, had lashed out at her either for her relation to her uncle or her connection with Martin.

The third, which she only realized as she turned and began walking away, was that Martin had planned this. It took her two blocks to move past that simple idea and towards possible explanations. He wouldn't do it to punish her, or torture her. At least, she didn't think he would. The care he'd shown her that evening made the thought impossible to hold onto. But maybe he'd left something in her apartment the other night, when he'd sat up late working on his code breaking. Maybe he'd left notes behind that she hadn't seen. Maybe this was simply the easiest way to hide his moves.

She tamped down the anger that flared in her breast at the thought. How careless, thoughtless, cruel-

Callista arrested her rage before it could build. It was useless, and she was tired.

No matter who it had been - if it had been anything but horrible, terrible luck - they had timed it perfectly, cutting her off from sleep and safety in the middle of the night. Perhaps it was only blind luck that she wasn't inside even now. The presence of the Watch meant the quarantine was fresh, and that there were still living people inside. The integrity of the perimeter couldn't be trusted yet. That meant it had gone up just that day, possibly only a few hours ago. It'd be two days at least before the Dead Counters were called.

She scrubbed at her face, exhaling shakily. She had to think - there were still hotels in the city, but they had become strictly segregated. Some took only the wealthy. The vast majority were more like charnel houses, where the poor and sick went to die. Geoff's house was still sealed under orders of the Regent, no doubt. Martin was unavailable.

Her thoughts tended back towards the pub on the river, and her uncle's disgraced friend.

Farley Havelock owed her uncle a favor.

She turned towards the river, and tried not to let the panic overtake her. Havelock owed her uncle a favor, but he was already under suspicion. Burrows had mentioned his discussion with Martin as if it were treason by its very existence. And where she knew why Martin owed Geoff - that little black notebook, the very need for the Feast - she had no clue as to how Havelock was ensnared. Going to him, asking him for help, could open up herself - and Martin - to new attacks.

But the streets weren't safe, and she had no other harbor she could go to. The river beckoned. She went.

She went past dark alleys and thoroughfares lit by floodlights, sidestepping the odd rat and giving wide berth to any strange men on the streets. She took a different path than the one she had taken the other night, this time staying a safe distance from the water, as well. The banks of the Wrenhaven weren't much safer than the alleys of Dunwall some nights, whether it was under threat of the smugglers that worked the shallows and the shorelines or of stevedores and whalers and slaughterhouse workers staggering home or contemplating the water.

Bright lights shone from the pub's windows when she reached it, and spilled out onto the street as one of the fine wood doors opened and a few patrons trickled out. She kept her arms wrapped tight around her middle, fingers fisted in the strap of her satchel, as she edged around the bunch and stepped into the warm interior of the building. The auburn-haired woman was at the bar again, and Havelock sat across from her, talking with another man, laughing heartily and slapping the polished wood with his broad, rough hands.

Callista swallowed, then pushed back the renewed surge of doubt. He owes my uncle a favor, she reminded herself, and approached with as much confidence as she could project. He didn't notice her. She cleared her throat, but still nothing.

The auburn-haired woman caught her eye, then leaned in and set a glass of water under Havelock's nose, and gestured with a tilt of her chin.

Havelock turned, then, his brows going up. "Just a minute," he rumbled to his companion, then stood and came close to her, lifting a hand as if to settle it on her back. He paused short, instead gesturing a little further away. She followed his lead around the corner of the bar.

They stopped before a closed door. She swallowed, gaze darting around uncertainly. Havelock's jaw worked, but he said nothing.

She cleared her throat again. "You said you owed him a favor?" she asked.

He snorted. "Good evening to you, too, Miss Curnow. Yes." He bowed his head close. "Though speak quieter."

"Right," she said, then took a deep breath and murmured, "I need somewhere to stay the night. Maybe a few nights."

Havelock glanced to the door she'd come in through. "Are you in danger?"

"I- not that I know of, no. It's just that my apartment building has been condemned. Plague. And they took my uncle's a few days ago."

He frowned, eyes narrowing. "How conveniently unfortunate," he said, then sighed and shrugged. "Right. Well, we have a few beds. You're welcome to stay."

"You're sure?" she asked, shoulders sagging. "I- don't have much coin right now. In a few days though-"

He lifted one broad hand. "I'll have Lydia show you up."

"Thank you," she breathed, then managed a small smile. "My uncle would thank you, too."

Havelock nodded with a faint grunt of agreement, then turned away and rejoined his companion. Callista watched as he said a few words to the auburn-haired woman. She responded by wiping off her hands on her apron, throwing Callista a few quick, appraising glances. Callista looked away, leaning against the bar. Her feet hurt, and she thought of a bed and a real night's sleep with deep longing. The bed would probably just be in whatever staff quarters Havelock kept, but it would be enough.

Lydia tapped on the bar, and Callista straightened up, blinking away the lethargy.

"Follow me," Lydia said, and Callista nodded and fell in step behind her as she opened the nearby door and led her up a well-kept flight of stairs. "The Admiral says you're to get room and board for free, as long as you need it. He usually only does that for his navy boys."

"I'm... the niece of one of them," Callista offered, clasping her hands before her as they entered into a hallway. She could see an open door to a room filled with bunks, but Lydia instead turned to a door just beside them. She worked her keyring free from her apron belt and unlocked it, then nudged it open.

"Linens should be fresh. If not, let me know - I'll give Cecelia another talking to." The woman paused, then shrugged and attempted a smile. It came off brittle, untrusting. "You should thank the Admiral - he's given you the nicest place in the pub."

Callista flushed, faintly, and edged around Lydia into the room. It was clean, and more than half the size of her apartment. There was a narrow bed and a small table with a pitcher she suspected was currently empty.

"Washroom is down the hall," Lydia added. "Come downstairs if you need anything. If nobody's there, help yourself. Within reason, mind."

"Of course," Callista said. "I- I hope my stay won't be long, or too much of an imposition. Your employer is doing me a great favor."

The woman shrugged. "He gets into strange moods. Can't help it. Good night, Miss...?"

"Callista," she responded, not sure if she should give her last name. "Just Callista is fine."

Lydia eyed her, then shrugged again and turned away. "Good night, Miss Callista," she said, then disappeared back into the stairwell.

Callista took a deep, steadying breath, then closed the door.

When she was alone, she undressed. When her corset as off and her breeches and knickers had been pulled down, she twisted at the waist and craned her neck.

The marks Martin had left on her were fading, but a few were still visible, the red stamp of his hand standing out against her pale flesh. She prodded at her skin, then closed her eyes at the welcome sting.

In the morning, she opened her door to hear the faint sound of arguing coming from down the hall. Nobody had been around when she'd first woken, and gone to the washroom to clean up. But by the time she had dressed and gone over her few belongings, and decided she was ready to face the world again, two men were bickering down the hall. One was Havelock - the deep rumble of his voice was unmistakable. The other had a high-pitched, wheedling voice, which drew Callista's attention despite her better judgment.

The door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar. It was made of thick metal, something she hadn't noticed the night before, and she frowned at it. A vault, on the second floor? Havelock began speaking again, and she edged closer.

"-not a part of this," he said.

"If she's Curnow's niece and is sympathetic to him, then she is! She's absolutely on our side," the other man whined. Callista froze.

"She's sympathetic to him because he raised her, Pendleton. Not because she agrees with what he did."

Pendleton. She'd heard the name before. That family owned silver mines, and wielded so much political power that even Empress Kaldwin had sometimes had trouble controlling them.

But why was one of them here?

The lord snorted. "How do you know, though?"

"She's too smart to agree with it."

"Are you saying we're not-"

"I'm saying that she's better off keeping her head down, and she knows it. What would she do? Lecture Burrows into submission?"

"Well, if we ever find the girl, she'll need a tutor."

Havelock didn't respond to that. Callista swallowed, glancing up and down the hallway. There was no sign of Lydia. Still, it would be smarter to turn and leave, to act as if she'd heard nothing. Later, she could tell Martin that Havelock was involved in a conspiracy - with a lord. He'd know if it was worth attending to.

"The girl does need a home. And a job, I'd assume. Nobody's going to bring Curnow's niece, who for all they know could also carry plague, into their home - even if their kids were still in the city," Havelock sighed. "I'll talk to her. But stay out of it, Pendleton."

"I need to head back to the estate anyway. With my brothers spending all their time drinking and whoring, somebody needs to manage the house." His voice turned sour at that.

Callista turned on her heel, and retreated back into her room. She stared at the little satchel. If she left now, she could avoid the whole mess. The possibility was attractive. But they had plans to find the Lady Emily. That was important. That was good. If they somehow managed to find Emily before Martin could, she could use that. But a conspiracy worried her more than working for the High Overseer. At least the latter had the illusion of legitimacy.

She grimaced and picked up her satchel. She'd go for a short stroll, out in the streets around the pub. Clear her head a little, give Pendleton time to leave unnoticed.

Then she'd talk to Havelock - candidly, or as candidly as she could.

She met nobody on her way out of the building, and the first door she tried from the pub let her out into the loading yard that stretched out to the river Across the way, she could hear hounds barking, and made out the hulking building that was likely the fighting ring. She approached, slowly, keeping an eye out for any hounds outside the walls, but found none. The door was shut, and she had no desire to open it. She went to its windows and rose onto her toes, peeking in through the grimy glass.

Inside, she could see an empty fighting cage with a hound kennel attached to it. A few other doors led elsewhere. The sound of the hounds was softer here; they must have been housed elsewhere.

"Miss Callista Curnow?"

She turned, startled. An Overseer watched her, approaching at a steady, leisurely pace. He was accompanied by two others. The noise of the hounds must have covered their approach.

"Who's asking?" she managed. By her apartment, or at Holger, she wouldn't have felt so cornered, but out here by the pub, where nobody should have known she was staying-

"Overseer Martin," the man said.

Callista didn't move.

"The conclave is in session, is it not?" she asked, lifting her chin.

The Overseer who had been speaking canted his head slightly. "You're to come with us, Miss Curnow. Quietly, please."

"I'm otherwise occupied. Let Overseer Martin know that I will visit as soon as possible."

"That won't be possible," the man said, and settled a hand on his sword's hilt. "Come quietly, Miss Curnow, and this will all be over more quickly."

Callista swallowed, thickly, then reached for the doorhandle and tried it. It turned. The Overseer drew his sword, and the men behind him their pistols. She forced the door and slipped inside, heart hammering loud enough to drown out the faint barks and bays of the hounds, but not the shouts as she closed the metal door. Gunshot and the splintering of glass broke through her heart's din, and she threw herself on the ground, her weight jamming the door.

Her bones and sinews quaked, and she stared up at the latch. It needed a key to close. Hands trembling as the door began to jerk against her back, as the shouting grew louder, she fumbled in her satchel. Maybe she had something she could jam the lock with. Maybe it would give her enough time for Havelock to come and clear out the Overseers. But her hand closed instead around the grip of her pistol.

It was loaded. She'd made sure of that before going out to the country.

She tossed the rest of her satchel aside, and frantically checked the weapon over as quickly as she could. The door slammed into her back and she cried out.

She was answered by a low, warning growl.

Looking up, she saw a great, dark-furred wolfhound emerging from the hound kennel and into the cage. It looked as if it were made entirely of thick, coiled muscle, and it stared at her with flashing eyes.

But the cage door was closed tight. She made herself breathe, and glance up at the door. The muzzle of a pistol poked through the broken glass, then angled down.

With a shout, she threw herself out of the way just seconds before the gun went off. She scrambled back across the floor, then got to her feet, staggering backwards. She kept her eyes fixed on the door, gun raised.

The latch turned. The door swung open as the boot of the Overseer connected with it. Callista's finger moved on the trigger.

The crack of the gunshot filled her ears with ringing, and for a moment she couldn't see, until she remembered to open her eyes. The Overseer was on the ground, clutching his shoulder.

Between her and him was the cage door. Open.

Callista stared, then ducked back behind a stack of crates as the wolfhound emerged from the cage and streaked towards the door. The other two Overseers, edging into the room more cautiously, shouted and began to retreat. Callista peeked over the top of the crates just as the hound leapt onto the Overseer on the ground, going straight for the man's unprotected throat. The beast's great, knife-like head shoved the man's chin up, and the man's shouts ended in a sputtering cry.

Another shot rang out, and the hound lurched to one side. Callista fumbled with her pistol. There were still two Overseers, she reminded herself, and the hound would just as quickly turn on her if she were injured, even moreso now that it had been shot. It snarled and leapt out the door.

Somewhere in the din, she thought she heard Havelock shout. There were more gunshots. Callista, shaking, sank down behind the crates once more, unable to will herself out from behind them and towards the dead man lying in the doorway.

Soon, the noise died away to nothing but the sounds of the river and the snarling and whimpering of the hound. Then Havelock's voice, shouting Back, back! Both grew louder.

The cage door clanged, latched.

Havelock grumbled below his breath, then boomed, "Whoever you are, get out here. You've cost me six hundred coin, injuring my hound!"

Callista staggered, slowly, to her feet.

Havelock stared at her, his expression transforming slowly from fury to confusion. "Miss Curnow?"

She grimaced, setting her pistol down on top of the crate.

"They came for you?"

"Yes," she managed, taking small, stiff steps towards the crate. "I- work for Overseer Martin," she confessed, closing a hand around one of the bars and staring in at the hound, now lying on its side, licking at the bullet wound in its foreleg. "Will it be okay?"

"Blacky? Maybe. Depends on if the bone's shattered. I'll have my vet come and look at him once we take care of the bodies outside." His voice was distant, abstracted, and he stared at her.

Callista swallowed.

"You said you weren't sure if you knew him."

"I didn't have a reason to tell you. I know you met with him, though. The night my uncle killed-"

"That was a coincidence," Havelock said, then groaned and rubbed at his head. "Go in the pub. Wash the gunpowder off your hands. I'll get this mess taken care of."

Her eyes went to the Overseer spread out on the ground. "What will you do with them?"

"If the hounds won't take them, they'll go in the river. Easy enough." He searched her face. "Will there be more? Will they be missed?"

"I don't know," she said, wrapping her arms around her waist. Her gaze remained fixed on the dead man, on the hole she'd blown in his shoulder. "I suppose that depends on who becomes High Overseer."

Havelock grunted in what she assumed was understanding. Callista let go of the cage bar, gathered up her pistol and satchel, and stepped over the corpse with its rictus mask and its torn-out throat.

"We'll talk once I take care of this," Havelock called.

She looked back and nodded.

The washroom door didn't lock, but Callista was able to move one of the crates stacked in the room in front of it. The block in place, she sank down to the floor. The shaking that had been growing in her since the Overseers had cornered her become fully uncontrollable, wracking every bone down to the smallest in her wrists, forcing her eyes shut, controlling her breathing. She let out a low moan, curling forward, hunching over her knees.

With her eyes closed, she smelled only gunpowder and blood, saw again the way the hound had sank its sharp teeth into the man's throat. She remembered again her relief, her desperate relief. Her fear remained. Her horror grew.

She'd killed that man, even if the bullet in his shoulder alone would never have done the job.

There were a hundred ways to justify what had happened, and her uncle had trained her with a gun to protect herself, but that didn't keep bile from rising in her throat. She staggered to her feet and over to the sink. She gripped hard at the edge of it, shoulders and chest heaving.

Her hands burned and her head pounded, and when the first wave of vomiting came, the acid of her bile stung at her eyes and triggered a torrent of hot, fat tears. She heaved again, groping blindly for the tap to wash it away. Her gloves slipped against the metal, and it took four tries to get water pouring into the basin.

By then her stomach was empty. Leaning hard against the basin, she tore her gloves from her hands. Shaking, she washed herself, scrubbing hard with the harsh soap, scraping and rinsing until her skin was pink and raw.

When it was done, she turned the tap off and sank back to the ground. She blinked through the haze of tears in her eyes, and stared up at the ceiling. Her breathing began to slow to hiccuping coughs. She focused on every breath, the proof that she had defended herself. She still lived.

That was what was most important.

The numbness that she had grown so used to expanded from its constant home in the center of her chest, once the panic had subsided. It obliterated her shaking. It dulled her senses and her fears.

Callista rose to her feet and moved the crate back to where it had come from.

Lydia set out a breakfast of dark bread and pickled quail eggs, along with a big cup of steaming tea that, at Callista's nervous request, she added a large dose of brandy to. Callista picked at the food, her attention focused on the windows. The woman had said nothing, but she must have heard the gunshots earlier, the shouting.

How soon would the Watch come for her, for disturbing the peace? Or another, larger group of Overseers? It was foolish to stay here, and dangerous to the man who'd offered her room and board only because of a debt owed to Geoff. Her stomach churned, but it was a distant sensation.

She was halfway through the first slice of bread when the realization, sickening and certain, came to her; the Overseers had tried to take her because of Geoff. Without Martin to protect her, there was nothing to stop them from attempting to re-educate her, or worse, because of her ties to the heretical murderer.

And there was nothing to stop Burrows, either - and it was he who had originally ordered her taken into custody.

She covered her face with her hands and focused on breathing, her shield of numbness threatening to crack, then downed half the cup of steaming, sharp tea in one go until it scorched her mouth and throat and settled in around the knot in her chest, strengthening it once more.

If she could only find a way to ensure that Martin became High Overseer-

The door opened, and Havelock came in from the yard, shrugging out of the blood-spattered, gunpowder-flecked coat he wore. He set it on the bar, where Lydia took it without a word. Callista watched as she handed it to a ginger-haired woman she'd hardly noticed.

Havelock spoke a few words to Lydia, and she nodded and poured him a small glass of whiskey, then went towards the stairs.

Callista grimaced as the older man settled into the booth across from her.

"Are you alright?" he asked, brow creased in concern. "Seeing what a hound can do to a man- that's not the easiest thing to stomach."

"I'm fine," she said. Her voice sounded flat. Hollow.

Havelock didn't respond, and seemed to struggle, searching for the right words. Calista took another sip of her tea. Her hands had stopped their trembling, though they looked small and fragile without fabric covering them.

"It's enough to be alive," she added.

He nodded in agreement. After a moment's silence, he cleared his throat. "Overseer Martin, hm?" He reached for a slice of bread, ripping it into pieces with his thick fingers. "How are his chances? At the seat?"

She stared down at her tea. "Good, I think. But until he's installed, I'm not safe."

"More Overseers?"

"And possibly the Regent's men. Nobody likes how close I was to my uncle - or to Martin."

"Understandable. Dangerous men, both of them. You're very brave, bearing up under all this."

"I don't have much of an option." Her thoughts went back to her family's coastal home. She could have stayed - for a time. Or she could have gone into the sea...

Havelock sat back, then looked up as Lydia approached, holding an old naval uniform coat. Havelock thanked her and stood, shrugging into it. It looked odd over civillian clothing, but Havelock seemed to straighten a little, wearing it.

He sat back down, hands braced on his thighs. His gaze had turned piercing, appraising. "The night the High Overseer died, I spoke to Martin. I want to work with him. He's a clever man."

"Work with him?"

Havelock leaned forward. "I want to find the heir," he murmured. "And get that bastard Burrows out of the Tower."

"That's treason," Callista said.

"So is resisting arrest by the Abbey," Havelock pointed out, then tapped the table with one meaty finger. "With Martin's help, though, we have a decent chance. He has access to information nobody else does. And I have connections in the military and the nobility."

Her throat tightened and Callista turned, looking out the window again.

"If you swear to take this to Martin," Havelock said, "then I will guarantee your protection as long as you stay here."

She looked back at him, eyes wide. "Martin is a careful man," she said, slowly. "I can promise to tell him, but I can't promise that he'll want to help - or that he won't turn you in to boost his legitimacy. Are you prepared for that?"

Havelock frowned. "... I suppose I have to be," he said. "But if I can rely on your influence-"

"What influence?" she asked. "I'm his assistant. He only took me on because he owed my uncle. It's the same as your letting me stay here because of your own debt - whatever that is."

He ignored the half-asked question. "Overseers don't have maids, or assistants," he said, and lifted his glass. "He's taking a big risk having you around. He has to extend himself to protect you. He wouldn't do that if you're not worth something to him. And if you're worth something to him?" He shrugged. "You have influence."

Callista watched as he knocked back his whiskey, then rose from the table.

"Think about it, Miss Curnow. I'll be back once Blacky's seen to. I hope to find you still here."

Morning turned to early afternoon as Callista slowly picked at her food. After the first half hour of anxious waiting for Havelock's return, she began to appreciate the quiet, the isolation. It was tempting to lock herself in her room upstairs, to close the windows and sit in the dark, trying to put the pieces of herself back together.

But the pieces were all where they needed to be, she supposed. She fit together quite well these days. It was only that they creaked and chafed, new to their arrangement, poking out in odd places, waiting to be worn smooth.

Havelock passed through the pub once or twice in the course of tending to his beast, never using the main door. Lydia never went to it, and it remained locked, keeping all patrons out. There were a few knocks throughout the day, and each one made Callista straighten and lift her head.

Nobody was allowed in.

Callista never cleared her plate of eggs and bread, and only finished her tea after it was bone cold, but Lydia still brought her lunch, setting out a small plate of hagfish and a glass of beer. Callista picked at both. Her stomach had settled, but she wasn't hungry. Instead, she felt very still.

She wanted to see Martin, she determined. Not to tell him everything that had happened, not to warn him - though that would happen too - but to bask in his smug certainty, to absorb the illusion of safety she had around him.

The sun was firmly in the western portion of the sky when Havelock came to her table. He placed a medal on the table.

"Your uncle was there in the fight that won me that," he said, lifting a brow.

"It's very nice," she replied. "I'm glad you prevailed."

"Take it."

She shook her head. "I don't take bribes. I'm sorry."

"It's not a bribe," he said. "It's a memento of your uncle."

"I have my gun. That was from him as well. I appreciate the gesture, Admiral-" Havelock straightened somewhat, unable to keep from preening- "but I can't accept this. It was awarded to you, and with any luck, you'll get to wear it again soon."

He hummed, gathering the medal back and slipping it into his pocket. "Have you given any thought about the power you have?"

"Some." Not much. She'd thought on it enough to realize she didn't want the kind of influence he was talking about. It would protect her, of course, but it also overwhelmed her. Still, she thought he might be right.

She was worth something to Martin.

Shadows passed in front of a window, and Lydia set down a bottle on the bar. "Visitors," she announced. The knocking came only a few minutes later.

"We're closed!" shouted Havelock, glancing at Callista and then moving towards the door. She could see his hand straying towards his pistol. Callista closed her eyes, covering her mouth with one hand.

"Representatives of the Abbey of the Everyman, here to speak with Callista Curnow," came the reply.

Callista hunched forward.

"There's nobody here by that name," Havelock growled. "And we're closed."

"A patrol sent here this morning hasn't returned."

Callista took a deep breath, then got to her feet. She stared at the door, at Havelock with his pistol now in his hand. Lydia was nowhere to be seen.

"There's a way down to the sewers," Havelock said over his shoulder, through clenched teeth. "Go into the hallway, here," he said, indicating a door, "open the floor up, and there's a chain you can lower. It winches back up when there's no weight on it."

She shook her head. "I can't-"

"If you want to live, you'll-"

A female voice interrupted them. "The patrol sent here this morning was acting under the orders of a splinter group within the Abbey. The Overseer who sent them has been dealt with. We come on orders from the High Oracle."

Havelock's head swiveled back around. Callista's mouth went dry.

"Open the door, Farley Havelock," the woman said.

Callista cleared her throat. "Go ahead," she said.

Havelock hesitated a moment longer, then holstered his pistol and opened the door.

Behind it stood three Overseers flanking a woman in a black robe. Her shoulders were covered with a heavy, stiff mantle that rose up in a voluminous hood that obfuscated everything but a glint of metal inside. The robe was cinched at the waist with a military-style belt, and fell to just below her knees. She wore fine hose and fine shoes, and her hands were covered with fine leather.

No inch of skin showed.

As she stepped into the pub, the light caught under her hood, revealing a faintly domed, featureless expanse of bronze. There were no holes or grate to see through.

Callista took a deep breath. The featureless face oriented to her.

"I'm here," Callista said. "What does the Abbey need of me?"

"The High Oracle would speak with you, Miss Curnow, as a part of the conclave proceedings. Will you come with us?"

She swallowed, thickly, glancing to the Overseers standing motionless behind the woman. "Do I have a choice?"

"If you refuse, the Abbey will consider you no longer Teague Martin's adjunct. All the protection you derive from that status will be gone."

Callista grimaced, bowing her head.

"You will understand," she said, slowly, "that having almost lost my life this morning to what you call a splinter faction of Overseers-"

"The problem has been taken care of. You will remain unharmed."

The woman's words, muffled by the metal of her mask, had a certain, strange lilt to them. Callista had only heard of the sisters of the Oracular Order before. They were the ones who set the calendar each year, and who brought to the Overseers every prophecy that guided their decisions. They were vastly powerful.

And an unknown.

"I would like to come armed. As insurance."

"Until you come before the High Oracle, that will be allowed," she said. "Though a note has now been made of your martial nature. Gather what you need, then return here. We will escort you."

Callista nodded, taking a few deep breaths through her nose. Havelock remained by the door, arms crossed, as Callista went back to her booth. She'd kept her satchel with her all day, too afraid to be without it. At the time, she hadn't thought of it as fear. It had been need, only need.

Now, though, she knew exactly why she'd kept it. The weight of the pistol inside of it was reassuring.

As she came to the door, the Overseers fell in step beside her. The Oracle had her mask turned in Havelock's direction. She said nothing, though, and followed Callista out of the pub.