Chapter 7
Outside the pub, the afternoon sunlight was strong and bright. It gleamed off the bronze dome of the Oracle's mask. Callista squinted against it as they led her to nearest set of rail tracks and the car - slightly larger, less opulent than Martin's - that sat on them. Nobody laid a hand on her, and all kept their weapons holstered.
She took a deep breath. This was her Abbey, the one that, if it did not accept her, tolerated her. They opened the door to the car, and she climbed inside.
The car still had only two bench seats. Two Overseers sat across from her. The other and the Oracle sat on either side of her. When the car was sealed, bright, harsh lights sprung on, and she grimaced, squinting.
The ride was short and silent. They arrived at Holger without fanfare. The front square was empty except for the regular patrols, and with the afternoon sun it was impossible to see how much of the Office was lit from within. She was led inside, and it became clear how heavily guarded the building itself had become. They passed by three stations of guards before they even reached the stairs, and from there they passed another guard post at every floor.
They ascended to the top floor of the building, above Martin's office, using a disused stairway that had been locked down on previous visits by a cage of sparking steel. The lights, which had been turned up to high illumination on the floors below, dimmed to almost nothing. She followed the shadows of her escort down passages and, finally, through a door and into what she assumed was a room. Their footsteps didn't echo back the way they had in the hallway, and the air felt close and heavy.
The Oracle took her arm and led her to a chair she could barely see.
"You will wait here, until the High Oracle is ready for you," she said.
Callista wet her lips. "And Overseer Martin?"
"Will be present at the meeting." The woman's robe rustled in the dark. "You will be considered a unit for the rest of the conclave. Just like him, you will not be allowed to leave. We will find space for you."
"This- isn't normal, is it? To have an- an-" Outsider- "a layperson within the walls of the conclave?"
A reverberating laugh floated from the Oracle's silhouette. "No, but you ceased to be a layperson the moment you and Overseer Martin decided that you would change traditions and become an assistant. Luckily," she added, "we already knew something of the sort would happen."
Callista nodded, weakly. She'd heard stories of the Oracular Order, but only stories; they were a mystery, cloistered outside the cities, in high towers or in low buildings stretching across inhospitable plateaus.
She heard the Oracle's soft footsteps retreating, and saw the change in darkness that had to be her form moving away, and she swivelled in her seat. She could see no other standing shadows that could be her Overseer escort. "Am I safe, here?" she called out.
"Yes, Miss Curnow. The only people who have died in a conclave in the last several generations took their own lives. You are safe."
A door opened and closed. Callista was left alone in near-total darkness.
The room was vast and claustrophobic all at once. She drew her feet up onto the chair with her, and tried not to think of what lurked in shadows.
She began to spin theories: that the men of the Abbey feared the dark and the unknown, and so supported the forward march of technology, of brilliant floodlights that never went out and ways to drain the channels and marshes and every inlet of water not necessary for sustenance. That the women didn't fear the dark at all, but respected it and divorced its limitless potential from the threat of the unknown, used it as the men used light and science. It was all very elegant - and so, she thought, probably wrong.
But it was something.
Martin had talked about the candidates going without their masks to see if any caved to the fear of what would find them if it could tie actions to an individual. Maybe the darkness was another step in the process. They stripped themselves of anonymity, then descended into the source of their fears. But the darkness granted anonymity, too, and the idea that only those who killed themselves died in the dark seemed... unlikely.
A door opened and closed. Callista lifted her head, but saw nothing; the faint light of the hallway, only slightly brighter than the room she was in, was already gone.
"Miss Curnow?"
Martin.
She straightened up. "Here," she said, "in a chair."
"Keep talking, so I can find my way to you."
The words dried up. She couldn't think of a single thing to stay except I killed a man today and I still don't know why.
"Nevermind," he said, voice taking on a note of what sounded like concern. "I can hear your breathing."
His footsteps were loud, announcing his approach, and soon she heard his hand brush over the arm of the chair. He paused, then lowered himself at her feet. His clothing rustled, with a different sound than his woolen uniform.
"I'm glad that you're alive," he said.
"They told you?" she managed.
"One of my rivals told me his men had you," he said. His hand brushed the arm of the chair again. His fingers drummed on the- wood? "He thought it would make me do something reckless. Leave, maybe, or try to kill him. But the Oracles picked up on what had happened soon enough. They said they'd sent somebody to retrieve you."
Callista shivered, bowing her head. They came because of you, then, she thought, and covered her mouth for a moment to hold back any wordless cries.
When she could speak again, she said, "I killed a man today."
The confession felt strange on her lips and tongue, and it soured as it hit the air. She wished she could take it back. There was no lightness to admitting what she had done.
Martin didn't respond at first.
Then he hummed, deep in his throat. "Is this the first time?"
She nodded, then closed her eyes and said, "Yes."
Again, he said nothing. But his hand left the arm of the chair and instead came to rest on her knee. She flinched, then covered it with both of hers.
He wasn't wearing gloves, and neither was she. She'd abandoned her gloves in the washroom at the pub, too sickened by their gunpowder stench. It had been years, it seemed, since she'd felt somebody's skin with her skin, and she trembled as her fingertips dragged over the whorls of his knuckles.
She waited for him to pull away. He didn't. Instead, he sighed and leaned against her chair, close to her legs. She was glad she couldn't see him - the intimacy of it would have overwhelmed her.
"They condemned my apartment," she murmured, gaze fixed ahead of her, unseeing.
"Silas's men?" Martin asked. She imagined his brow quirking, then shut down the image. She focused on the blackness instead.
"No. Watchmen, and maybe the landlord. It's marked as plague-stricken, and was still under the initial quarantine when I got there. Nobody saw me, though. I left."
"Where did you go?"
"Farley Havelock's pub. He knew my uncle. He... owed him a favor."
Martin chuckled. "And then the Overseers found you there?"
"Out in the yard. I ran into the building they use for hound fights. One of the hounds was out, but I didn't know that until I'd- until I'd fired my gun." She let out a shaking breath. "I caught one of the men in the shoulder, enough to get him down on the ground. And the hound-"
Martin's hand tightened on her knee. She stopped, panting for breath.
"I didn't know you could shoot," he murmured, with the same tone he'd had when he called her clever, when he'd stared at her with pleased astonishment when she'd announced she'd cracked Campbell's cypher.
"My uncle taught me," she responded, weakly. "So I could protect myself."
He would be proud, she thought.
"Perhaps you will be my Lord Protector, then," Martin murmured. Then he shifted slightly. "But the hound killed the man. Not you." His voice firmed.
"If I hadn't shot him, the hound wouldn't have torn his throat out."
"The Abbey loves you, for your guilt and self blame," he said, and there was a note of bitterness in his voice. His thumb rubbed at her knee. "But you defended yourself, and though you were a reason for a man's death, you were only one of them. Tell yourself this. You didn't let the hound out, or set it on him. And if you hadn't shot him, what then? They would have killed you. I knew that from the moment Silas told me his men had you - that if they did, you were already dead."
She let out a low, soft sound. "Why?"
"Because they had no reason to let you live. All they needed was for me to leave the conclave, or do something foolish. If I didn't become High Overseer, your life would be meaningless, and nobody would mourn you. If I did, I would have lost an ally of questionable worth - to them, only to them - and any response of mine could be painted as irrational. Do you see?"
"So you assumed I was dead."
"It was the only intelligent path," he said. "But I thought first and foremost that he didn't have you at all."
She bowed her head, the deep chest shivers returning. They closed her ribs and shoulders in a vice, and made her quake, silently, in her seat.
"My uncle would have come for me."
"And it would have gotten him killed, and you not much better. Miss Curnow, please- I did what I did out of respect for you."
"Respect," she echoed, weakly.
It didn't seem like respect. And yet she found she wouldn't have wanted him to come to her aid in the pub. She preferred that the whole of it was only hers. She'd given him the horror of the Overseer's death, but nothing else.
The rest was hers.
"I feel like I'm shaking apart at the seams," she confessed, curling up more tightly in her seat. "I haven't really stopped shaking in days, and it's only getting worse."
Martin hummed, low in his throat, then stood. His hand left hers, and she lifted her head as he paced around behind her.
He tapped the back of the chair before reaching forward and slipping his hand around her throat. His touch was light, gentle, and she could have pulled away. Instead, she straightened, and let him pull her back against the chair.
Leaning down, he murmured in her ear, "Do you trust me, Miss Curnow?"
"Yes," she whispered. She did trust him. She trusted him because every time she had trusted him before, he had satisfied that trust. He'd been more constant than Geoff. He'd been more constant than her own mind had been.
Perhaps it was because he didn't promise quite so much.
He pressed harder with his hand, pinning her to the chair. The pressure of his touch made her breathing turn shallow, and she swallowed, her throat bobbing against his palm. She wished, briefly, for a barrier of leather between them, or of the red cloth still around her arm, before her attention focused down to the total awareness of her every breath, of her pulse, of the weight of him.
He stopped short of choking her, but only barely.
Slowly, he slid his hand up the column of her throat, until the edge of his finger pressed into the soft skin below her jaw. Her head tilted back. His other hand sought her wrist and dragged it, too, against the chair, pinned it in place. His grip was tight and harsh, but it never moved to painful.
Callista tried to sit forward. He didn't let her.
She began to shake, but he held her still.
Like when he'd bent her over his desk, her world narrowed only to where they were connected, only to the physical stress she was under, and the rest of her relaxed. It wasn't a great shattering, like what had happened in his office, or in the bathroom at the pub. This time, it was a weightlessness, a great wave of exhaustion that crashed over her, then dispersed. She struggled against him only to feel how he responded. She thought of what it would be like if he had wrapped his whole body around hers, immobilized her with himself.
Her eyes slid shut, and despite the pressure on her throat, her breathing slowed.
Distantly, she heard the rustle of fabric. It didn't sound like Martin's clothing, but before she could remember the words to articulate it, a woman's voice slipped out of the darkness like a darting, flashing minnow.
"That's an interesting method you have, Overseer Martin."
The voice sounded old, cracked and rough around the edges. Martin's grip immediately eased up, then slipped from Callista's wrist and throat entirely. She stirred, lethargic and confused, twisting in her chair.
She could see nothing in the darkness except for the faint outline of Martin's broad shoulders.
"I've seen men train animals in similar ways. Maybe it was men hooding their hawks, distracting them until they're needed? Always hunting relationships, oddly. I've never had much opinion on the use of it, though."
"How long have you been watching, Oracle?" Martin asked, and Callista could hear the splintering in his composure.
"Since she was brought here. I wanted to see this relationship for myself, without illusions to hide it. It's quite different from what your Brothers think it is."
The rustling of fabric grew closer. Callista massaged at her throat, searching in the dark for any moving shadows.
"Miss Curnow, do you usually trust violent men half so much?"
She swallowed. "Not like this."
"Yes, your uncle was a violent man as well - but not like this," the Oracle agreed. Her voice had moved to Callista's right. She was circling them.
Martin's hands curled over the back of the chair again. "Does the nature of our relationship disqualify me?"
"So blunt, Teague Martin. No, it does not. Neither does it raise you above your fellows. You have other qualities to do both."
The Oracle was closer now, and Callista finally made out her silhouette as she crouched before the chair. "Do you feel safe here, Miss Curnow?"
"I don't know," she said, drawing back.
The Oracle chuckled. "Blunt and honest - not qualities we expected from either of you. The High Oracle will be pleased. She likes things she wasn't able to foresee."
Martin inhaled sharply behind her. Callista tried to straighten up and keep her chin high, but it was nearly impossible.
"She would see you both, now," the Oracle said, rising once more and taking a few steps back.
Martin's hand slipped beneath Callista's arm, and he urged her to stand. She imagined him distracted, gaze focused on where he thought the Oracle might be. He seemed- nervous. Truly nervous.
These women upset him.
Callista stood and let him keep his hold on her as they followed the sound of the Oracle's footsteps. They were light and she strained to hear them. A door opened; the grey lightened ahead of them. She blinked her eyes. If she let her gaze go unfocused, she could see faint outlines.
She could see.
She let her sight go blurry and found that walking was much simpler. The room was largely empty, and the door was easy enough to find. The Oracle before them wore the same robes, but when she glanced back over her shoulder, Callista could see her nose, her chin. The domed mask was gone.
Callista turned her head. The lines of Martin's jaw and nose were harsher, but perhaps that was only the darkness obliterating all details that might have softened them. She couldn't see his expression, but his gaze was focused forward, his jaw lifted slightly. His hand hadn't moved from her elbow.
They reached the door, and passed through it to a labyrinth of halls. She desperately wanted to ask him about this part of the building - did the Oracles always live up here? If not, was this space used when they weren't in residence? Who had designed it? Why weren't there any windows? - but she found there was no sound left in her throat.
They paused before a final door. The Oracle knocked in a series of disjointed rhythms, then had it returned in kind. The latch clicked open. She nudged the door, and it opened up onto a pitch-dark room that Callista could never have any hope of seeing in.
She took a deep breath and stepped inside. Martin trailed behind her.
"Forward, ten paces," a woman said. It was impossible to place her age. Callista looked down to where her feet should have been, but the door had closed behind them. There was no light at all. She stepped forward. One. Behind her, Martin did the same. She tried to time their steps together, but it all became a jumble.
"Stop," the woman said. "Kneel."
The darkness was all-consuming, and Callista no longer knew if Martin was beside her. He'd let go of her when they passed the threshold. She strained to hear his breathing as she sank to the floor. It felt like the stone tile floors of the rest of the building, covered with a thin rug.
It hurt.
"Teague Martin."
"Yes, High Oracle?" His voice sounded faintly hoarse. She'd heard the tone before. It was one of barely constrained violence. Geoff had sounded like that when he was biting his tongue, when the actions of his men horrified him or when the Regent's policies damaged his reputation.
"I thought you would feel comfortable in the dark. More than the others, anyway. I'm disappointed."
"I don't know where any of the exits are," he pointed out, sharply. "And I can only count the breathing of three others in the room. I don't like it."
The High Oracle chuckled. "Very well-suited to Abbey life, you are. You cling to the blinding floodlights and the shadows they create very naturally, but put you into the unknown-"
"Give me time to adjust, and I will," he said.
Callista held her breath.
Something was passing between them - unspoken knowledge that informed their every word. The High Oracle knew something, and she could hear Martin trying to assert himself, and keep the discussion vague.
"Yes, you are the most adaptable of the candidates," the High Oracle said. "Others grasp at whatever they can see, but are crude in their methods. Overseer Silas has, of course, been informed that his plan failed."
"And where is he now?"
"Do you fear him stalking the shadows with a blade, Teague Martin? You are all men of faith, not violence - you have been trained to preserve your brothers."
"We have been trained to seek out heresy and destroy it at the root, even if it is among our number."
"You have been trained to never trust." She sighed. "A reasonable and good trait, mind you. Still, I have found that the things men fear in the dark are what they know of themselves. Silas would not use a knife. But you, Teague Martin..."
She could hear Martin swallowing, thickly.
"... No, I err." The High Oracle clucked her tongue. "No, you have more in common with my order, I think. You wouldn't hesitate to use a knife if that was what was needed, but you would much prefer to use that silver tongue of yours."
"From what I understand," he gritted out, "that is a common tactic among High Overseers."
"And you do it better than most. Still, you are a man who makes enemies, who incites violence to silence you. Why should I recommend that you be my opposite?"
"Because nobody else is as qualified. What happened to Brother Silas, High Oracle?"
"He tried to leave. He did not like being informed that we knew he tried to kill your assistant. And he did not like that we had called her here."
"And?"
"And he had an accident. Very unfortunate."
Martin was silent. Callista bowed her head.
"He did not have the conviction necessary to be High Overseer. And he had far too much fear. What are you afraid of, Teague? A week ago, I would have known you to be afraid of discovery, and yet now you bring Miss Curnow into your orbit, where she's at risk of seeing all your myriad secrets."
Callista's skin crawled, and she held her breath.
"You have all the right qualities, Teague Martin, in odd and intriguing combinations, and I have found that I can't read your future as well as I can the rest of your cohort's. And now my Oracles tell me that your relationship with your Miss Curnow isn't in the service of simple, base needs, or even convenient conspiracies."
When they'd had a time to communicate, Callista couldn't say. Had there been a second observer in the room, who had left before they had, through a silent doorway? The labyrinth they had passed through - had that been necessary, or a delaying tactic? She let out a shuddering exhale. It hardly mattered how the High Oracle knew. Callista could hear it building - she was the linchpin. His candidacy rested on her.
"Callista Curnow," the High Oracle said, and Callista flinched. "Your uncle, who was once your legal guardian, killed Thaddeus Campbell.
"For that I must commend him. He was making a mess of our Order."
Martin swore, softly.
"And you, too, have now killed Overseers. I should rightly have you imprisoned, because once the seed takes hold, it can be difficult to eradicate. You are not a pious woman, though you have never disobeyed the Strictures. Your obedience comes from your grief, and the ways you have closed yourself off to the world. And so you have no loyalty to us. Should you live, and rise to Martin's side, you will be the third most important person in this Order, and I do not know you."
"I can see how that would be- concerning," she said, fighting to keep her breath even.
"Will you advocate for yourself?"
"Only that I do not want to be imprisoned, or killed."
"Do you trust Teague Martin? You know him little better than I know you."
"I do."
"Why?"
"Because he has never betrayed the trust I have had to give him by necessity," she said. She kept her gaze fixed, unseeing, ahead of her, and forgot the sound of Martin's breathing.
"A very simple reason, but honest." The High Overseer hummed, then shifted wherever she sat in a rustle of fabric. "What are your ambitions?"
"To be safe," she said.
"Given safety, what then?"
"I don't- I don't know-"
"Once you dreamed of whaling ships, of killing the great leviathans and working your hands until they were no longer yours, only the machines necessary to do the work."
Callista flinched, feeling as if she'd been struck in the chest. "I was a girl, then."
"But it speaks to your ambitions. You wish to work, to fight, to be fierce, don't you?"
"I don't- that's not right."
"Give a man safety," the High Oracle said, "and he will find new goals in a fortnight. Power. Flesh. Money."
"I don't want any of those. I want a quiet life. I want to not- to not lose anything else."
"Power, then. You want the strength to keep your life together. It's a common, understandable goal. You want stability.
"But know this, Callista Curnow - you also want the power and strength that you would have found at sea. The power to control the unknown, to bleed it dry for your own triumph. Beware the deadening of your humanity in the process. Whalers do not remain human for long."
Tears pricked at her eyes, and she held her breath, unable to respond.
"You have picked an interesting assistant, Teague Martin. You are not a man to trust others. She should not trust you, either. And yet you've won her trust by simple actions.
"Consider if you want her to remain."
"I will not condemn her," he growled.
"I do not ask you to. She is quiet, and meek, but can contain herself quite well. I would trust her with our secrets. So she can go free, if she wants. Or she can stay. The decision rests between the two of you."
"I want to stay," Callista said.
Martin did not respond, and Callista hunched down, staring at where her knees should have been. Her fear slowly churned, then transformed to anger, to frustration.
"I will stay," she said, turning towards where Martin was.
Martin again said nothing, until he laughed, faintly, and echoed, "She will stay."
"Very well. Then stand up, High Overseer Teague Martin."
He stiffened. "The voting hasn't finished yet."
"No," she said, "but I see many things. You will be High Overseer. Does it bother you to know that, or thrill you?"
He was silent. Callista shivered. I see many things. The words echoed.
"Stand up, Callista Curnow. There is much work to be done, hm?" the High Oracle said.
Callista staggered up, and heard Martin do the same at last. Lamps flared, bright enough after the darkness to burn her eyes, and she grimaced - but when she had blinked the brilliant impressions from her vision, she could see again. Martin stood across from her in a black shirt and trousers, simple clothing from an earlier time, and he looked haggard. But as she watched, he schooled his expression, scrubbed at his unshaven jaw and harnessed himself back into his usual easy, arrogant state. His lips curled. He lifted his head.
High Overseer.
She turned towards the High Oracle, and saw an old woman sitting in a simple chair. Her robes were scarlet and her eyes were milky blind. Her hair was long and white and had been plaited into a crown.
She sat with her chin pillowed on her hand. "So, Martin, when the votes are through, will you consider leaving Dunwall with me? Campbell refused several times. But a plague should not destroy the Abbey."
"There is much work to be done, as you said," Martin replied. "I'll follow once it's done. Maybe. But with the plague, the people of Dunwall need- guidance."
She snorted. "As you say. I will be in communication, though. Do not shut me out. Campbell was a fool to do so."
"Of course not."
Callista watched a moment longer, then turned and scanned the room. It was simple, unfurnished, but well-kept. The wallpaper was fresh, the moulding polished. There was one other person besides the three of them, the fourth that Martin had identified earlier. She wore the same robes as the Oracle who had come to the pub, but the mask was gone. She looked too young to have been their recent escort. Her eyes were covered by a scarlet sash, and her face was turned fixedly towards them.
"I would like Oracle Anise to serve as my liaison," the High Oracle said.
"A minder?" Martin asked.
"No, a line of communication. She will be present only some of the time. Campbell ceased passing the Oracular Order information several years ago. I would like to keep that from happening again, especially in such troubled times as these. Will there be a problem, High Overseer?"
"I suppose not."
"I will do my best not to interfere," said Anise.
"As good as can be hoped for," Martin sighed, rubbing at his jaw. "So, how do we proceed from here?"
"As you would have if we hadn't spoken. Secure your votes however you will. A lesser man than you would revel in his prophesied success, but I doubt you put much stock in what I tell you."
He snorted. "I'm still making up my mind. But yes- the votes will be tallied, as many times as it takes."
"When the votes are tallied, and you prevail, we will initiate the arrangements for your public installation. It will take a few days. You'll need a new uniform tailored, of course, as will Miss Curnow. But that will come in time. For now, prepare for the next round of voting. We will find Miss Curnow a room."
Martin nodded, the muscles around his mouth tight and pursed. Callista found herself bowing, watching the woman with a profound sense of unease. She was so calm, so certain, and her words sounded true - but the combination of it all didn't do anything to settle her. She knew too much. It wasn't natural.
And the voting wasn't over yet. Nothing was certain.
Was it?
Martin hesitated a moment longer, then turned and gestured for Callista to follow. She did, eagerly. They passed through the door, into the darkness of the hallway. Anise didn't follow, and behind them, the lamplight guttered out.
He navigated by memory or touch - Callista couldn't be sure which - to a door several hallways over. It was impossible to tell if they passed other Overseers, other Oracles, and Callista felt herself bristling, afraid and uncertain.
Eventually, he paused at a door, then slipped a key from a pocket in his loose clothing and opened up the room. When they stepped inside, Callista thought she could feel walls close at hand. It felt small, tight.
"It's a guest room," he said as he shut them off from the hall. "For visiting members of the Abbey who have been raised high enough that they won't sleep in the barracks."
"Oh."
"I'll take whatever new room they come up with for you. I know this one by touch now - it's safe. And the furniture can be moved in front of the door, if it ever stops being safe."
She wrapped her arms around herself. "I can't say I feel particularly comfortable. The High Oracle-"
"The High Oracle usually resides in a tower off the shores of Whitecliff, with her women. They read the stars and the churning of the waves, and live in total darkness - from what I understand of it. There are members of the Order who think their very existence is heretical."
"I can believe that," she said.
She tensed when he touched her elbow, but let him lead her to his narrow cot. She sat down gratefully.
"Whaling ships?" Martin murmured.
Callista cleared her throat, thankful for the darkness to hide her flush. "Childish fancy. I'm not looking to catch the next ship out past the blockade."
"I wouldn't have expected whaling ships, though, even of the child you once were. I would have thought dreams of fine townhomes, hordes of children-"
"I was a frighteningly realistic child, in some regards," she said, scowling at the darkness. "I didn't want to think about families while I was losing mine, and I'd prefer to speak of something else now."
Martin was silent for just the space of a breath, re-evaluating. She thought she heard his shirt rustle as he shrugged. "Then should we talk about your declaration of trust?"
Her eyes were once more beginning to adjust to the dark, and she could make out faint shadows from the light that spilled in at the edges of the shuttered window. It wasn't enough to make out his expression, but it was enough for her to realize his gaze was fixed on her - and that he was crouched very close to her.
She looked away.
"I thought I articulated myself quite well about that," she said. "What did she mean when she said you should have been afraid of discovery?"
"Perhaps she knows about the journal," he said, shrugging. "It's not relevant, whatever she meant."
His words took on too much of an edge for her to believe him.
"Of course not," she said.
Silence fell, until Martin finally pulled away. "Stay in this room. I'll bring you your food. After what Silas attempted, and with what has happened before in conclave- it's dangerous."
"It makes you vulnerable," she said.
She hoped he grimaced at her perceptiveness.
"Something like that, yes. This should hopefully only take a few days more. Silas was my main opponent." He fell silent again, and she could hear him pacing. "... Perhaps I'll stay here as well, when it's time to sleep. Would that put you at ease, too?"
"It would, but people would notice."
"I'll return," he said, and his voice grew more distant.
"Off to secure your votes?"
"Yes," he said. "Yes, and I think I know just the trick, now that Silas is out of the way."
She stayed at Holger that night, curled up on Martin's cot. He didn't return for what felt like half a day, maybe longer, but without any light it was impossible to mark the passage of time.
A few hours in, she rose and paced the small expanse of floor, trying to learn the space. She rubbed at her throat, which still felt alive and tender where Martin's hand had pressed. She rubbed at her wrist for the same reason. She sought the calm it had given her, but instead came up feeling desperately confused.
Somewhere deep in the building, a bell rang.
When Martin returned at last, he was surly, snappish, and largely silent. They ate, without conversation, bowls of tasteless gruel - the better, Martin commented only once, to guard against bitter or pungent poisons. No wine accompanied their meal.
It was as if they were prisoners.
They slept in shifts, though not by design. Callista couldn't sleep for more than what felt like an hour, maybe two, at a time, but when she woke and paced the darkened room, she would hear Martin shift into the cot behind her. By the time her mind quieted enough, he would be awake again, sitting by the locked, shuttered window, and she would try to rest.
She could see faint light at the edges of the window when a bell sounded. Martin left shortly after and she fell asleep once more, tossing and turning, until he returned with another quick meal of gruel, then departed again. Alone, she went to the window, running her fingers along the glass and frame, imagining the view of John Clavering Boulevard beyond. She breathed in, and breathed out, and imagined herself out at sea, chasing great leviathans, trusting in herself that she was strong enough to survive the pursuit.
She was the High Overseer's assistant, and that was a good thing.
Soon the shutters would open, and soon Martin would wear scarlet.
That evening, he came back in a far better mood.
"Two left to go," he said once the door was locked. She heard the faint sloshing of their gruel, and made her way over by touch and memory to the small table they ate at.
"Will they be easy?"
"Given time to think on how they have no support- yes, I think so. I'm sure they'll pace all night, thinking of ways to unseat me. They won't find any." He chuckled, sitting down across from her, his chair creaking. He slid her bowl to her, and she took up her spoon, stirring the watery mixture. "Another day. That's all."
They ate in a companionable silence, until Martin set his spoon down and asked, "How have you been occupying your time?"
"Thinking," she said. "Pacing. Feeling... adrift."
"The darkness?"
"Yes," she said.
"And what have you been thinking about?"
"How I'd like a glass of whiskey," she said, and he chuckled. She leaned both elbows on the table, stirring at her gruel some more. "About what the High Oracle told us. And a little bit about what happened at the pub."
About what that man had looked like dead - which she could think on with a fair bit of detachment now, as long as she thought of Martin's hand on her throat after. But she'd also gone over the events of that day in their entirety.
"Havelock," she said. "He wanted me to pass a message to you."
"Did he, now?" his voice was close to her, closer than she had expected, and she shivered.
"He wants to ally himself with you. He has dreams of rescuing the heir, of deposing the Lord Regent. And he has an ally in parliament."
"Does he? That's... more than I would have given him credit for. Did he give you a name?"
"No, but I overheard them talking. It's one of the Pendletons."
"One of?" She could picture his frown perfectly. "Then it can't be either Custis or Morgan. Where one of them goes, the other always follows. That leaves the younger, Treavor. He has hardly any influence. Good blood, yes, and maybe money, depending on if his brothers control his purse strings or if he has independent income- but he's a piss poor vote. The whole thing is a recipe for disaster."
"I told him that you might not be interested," she said. "And that he should consider having me tell you all of this - you could have him arrested and killed, couldn't you?"
"I could. Do you want me to?"
She shook her head. "No. He saved my life, and was willing to defend me against the Overseers - and the Oracle."
"All because of that favor he owes your uncle?"
"I'm not sure. I think- it was because he wanted me to bring his case before you. He said that if I did, I could have sanctuary there as long as I needed it."
Martin huffed, leaning back. She listened to the creak of his chair.
"I'll consider it. Thank you for passing that along. At the very least, it lets me know what other parties are in play."
There were footsteps in the hallway, and Callista froze, listening to them. Martin stood, chair scraping against the floor.
"Probably time for another vote," he murmured.
The bell tolled, and Martin hummed, then stood.
"The last one?" Callista asked.
"It should be." The key turned in the lock. "Get some rest, if you can. You'll need it."
After what felt like both days and minutes, the lights sprang on, bright and unbearable. Callista couldn't close her eyes against them. Instead she stared up at the lamp until it burned its image into her eyes, and only then did she turn to look at the door.
The votes had been tallied.
It took several hours before Martin returned. The metal shutters opened, and she looked out for the first time in days on the outside world. It was raining, a torrential downpour slicking the roofs and streets below, and she unlatched the window so that she could breathe in the city's smoke-filled air. It was light out. Another night had passed while Martin was gone.
By the time Martin returned, she had cried with relief once, and was already doing a mental calculation of what day it might be, given the change in the weather and how long she thought had passed. As the lock turned, she rose from the cot and turned to greet him. Martin stepped in; behind him she could see Anise standing a short distance away, but then the door was shut again.
"Congratulations, High Overseer," Callista murmured, attention back on him.
He inclined his head, then grinned.
He moved past her to where his uniform sat folded in the far corner of the small room.
"Not the shortest conclave ever," he said, "but there were a fair number of candidates, and I didn't resort to having them all murdered." He laughed as he said it.
Callista watched, fixedly, as he tugged his loose shirt off. She swallowed, thickly. His back was tightly muscled, his shoulders broad and his waist narrow, and as he dropped his loose trousers, she could see that his calves were perfectly proportioned and curved. There were a few scars decorating his skin.
He tugged on his uniform pants, then glanced over his shoulder, amused by her silence. "Enjoying the show, Miss Curnow?"
She flushed, glancing away. "Sorry. It's a small room."
"That it is," he agreed, chuckling. She listened as he dragged on his undershirt and his uniform jacket, and looked back only when he was fastening his belt. "The tunic and pants were a gesture of obedience to the Oracles," he explained.
"I understand."
"A necessary evil, but I'll feel much better suited up. Even better when it's red."
Her gaze followed his hands as he pulled his gloves on, and then she huffed and stepped closer, reaching for his collar. It was slightly skewed, and she twitched it into place. Her knuckles brushed the stubble on the underside of his jaw.
His breath hitched. She looked at him, canting her head.
In the three or so days they'd been locked together in darkness, they'd rarely touched. They had dealt with the weight of the Oracle's pronouncements, and she with the horrors of what had happened at the pub, in silence. The darkness had provided solitude and protection.
Now, though, she could see his glittering eyes, and he could see her bare hands at work. Her throat felt thick as her hands trailed down the straps of his harness. She straightened them, too. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he batted her hands away.
"Let's get to work, then, Miss Curnow."
Callista nodded, and followed him out into the lit hallway.