Chapter 9

In the morning, Anise delivered her uniform. It was impeccably made - something Callista had worried about while she tossed and turned in bed, wondering if maybe she'd be given shoddy clothing to humiliate her.

The fear had been pointless. She repeated that to herself as she dressed, ignoring the twinges of pain from her rear where the skin was ruddy and bruised. The collar of her uniform closed around the faint marks of Martin's fingertips. She arranged her hair until it was sleek and composed, then looked herself over in the glass.

The uniform was black, but it didn't read so much as a mourning suit as it did a military uniform combined with a maid's outfit. Her shoulders were still mantled, and her breeches ended at the knee, but the rest of the uniform was pure Abbey. The sleeves went down to her wrists and were embroidered with the interlocked crescent and trident, and the jacket was fastened just like Martin's - though her clasps were miniature Abbey emblems, instead of simple hooks.

There were little flashes of red; the jacket was lined with what felt like real silk, which was visible when she lifted her arms and her cuffs fell back, and instead of the black and white nested collar that Martin wore, there was a band of red around her throat. It broke up the expanse of black and gold, and she studied the effect a moment longer before straightening her shoulders and leaving the room.

Martin was installed as High Overseer over the course of the next six hours. The time was spent in long speeches, proclamations, and sermons, all given in the main receiving hall. Through open doors, everyone could see the painted urns confusing the memorial rooms, and while no respects were paid - the Abbey didn't believe in much beyond acknowledgment after death and cremation - the weight of history kept the affair solemn.

The Oracles made no appearances. It was only Overseers in the hall for the first four or so hours, and Callista bore up under their glances and stares as the morning wore on. Martin was resplendent in crimson, and his voice boomed out through the room, his silver tongue twisting his sermons from the average to the extraordinary. He was no theological luminary, but he knew how to arrange sentences, how to enunciate words, and more than once she shuddered not with the memory of crawling to him across the floor, but with the power of his speech.

At the four-hour mark, Hiram Burrows appeared to represent all the Empire, and speeches were exchanged on the nature of the relationship between the State and the Abbey. The tension in the room rose, slightly, but the hawkish Regent knew the words to the scene perfectly. He and Martin exchanged symbolic gifts - a magnifying lens, a trident, and a flame from the Abbey, in exchange for a pen, a coin, and a sword from the State - before Hiram bowed, reaffirmed his commitment to the Strictures, and left.

She watched him go, thinking of the Lord Protector rotting in prison, and the Empress's body reduced to ashes.

The final speech was the sermon on Tynan. Martin didn't speak directly about liars, but he did speak about doubt, and fear. He whipped up both in his men, only to soothe it back down.

"My gaze," he said, "is not restricted, but it also does not wander. It is controlled. To restrict is to acknowledge a darker impulse, and to hide from it. But to control is to see the impulse, acknowledge it, and work to dismantle it from the root.

"My tongue does not work lies, and so I do not restrict it; instead, I focus on what is said, not how much.

"My hands are put to industry, not out of fear, but out of joy, and a desire to see things built, and not torn down.

"My feet do not rove. I have travelled far, and I know that men everywhere are the same, in their fears, their failings, and their capacity for strength. I know that wherever man has established civilization, the Abbey can protect his doorstep and his alleyways. Everywhere I step, I step with purpose.

"My hunger is checked; I eat when I am hungry, but no more. To eat without moderation, without concern for the plates of those around you, is to cause harm. To empty your own plate for others, though, is to set yourself above them. It is folly. It is pride.

"My flesh is not wanton," he said, and Callista took a deep breath, keeping her face still and impassive. "It is proud folly to state that a man does not respond to beauty, or that a man's body does not have needs. Without these impulses, there are no families, and little art. It is only when these impulses become unbridled, and show themselves in perversities, in over-indulgence, in obsession, that the flesh can be said to stray. And so we exercise control. We control ourselves around objects of desire, and we distance ourselves from them if they provoke in us dark feelings. But to mortify the flesh, or to punish the object- neither accomplish anything except to help us dwell on those feelings. Better to acknowledge them, and then turn away."

Callista straightened, her toes curling in her shoes. She remembered how he'd drawn away the night before. It made sense, she supposed. Overseers were not bound unwaveringly to chastity, but it was certainly expected, and important.

And she suspected his control had slipped the night before.

"This all stems from the final Stricture. My mind is united in a single purpose. It allows me to exercise control over my impulses, which arise from the world, and from within me. Because it is not fractured, it can consider each impulse, and school it into adherence. Every man in this room possesses the same united mind, for we have all trained and practiced to keep our thoughts in check. Every man in this room has the ability to control himself, beyond simple restrictions. The impulses will come; they will strike at our defenses, sometimes batter them down to near nothing, and we will be tempted.

"But the control that we have learned in our war against heresy, against the Outsider, will be our preservation. We will not hide from those impulses that frighten us. No, we will behold them, in their wretchedness, and we will tear them down as they threaten to tear us down, and we will cast them aside.

"For man's greatest strength, his triumph over the cruelty of the Outsider, is his ability to fight the Outsider back. We do not shrink. We do not hide. We control what is within ourselves, and then what is within this city, and we will drive back the darkness until it, too, is controlled in full."

Out in the streets, such talk would have produced cheers. She could see the same exhilaration in the Overseers lined up in the hall, but none moved - until one, slowly, lowered to his knees. Others followed, bowing their heads.

Soon, the chant went up.

"Long live High Overseer Teague Martin," echoed through the hall.

As it built, Callista knelt as well, and Martin's gaze found her. His lips tightened in what she now knew was the faintest, most careful smile.

Control, she reminded herself, and leant her voice to the chant.

The next four days were filled with endless meetings. Callista followed at Martin's elbow, taking notes, observing, and play-acting as his assistant until it slowly began to feel normal. She was silent unless they were alone, at which point she asked questions in rapid-fire succession, and took down his thoughts.

They traded off poring over the notebook. Callista continued working at the section concerning Attano and Daud, while Martin moved back to earlier pages, looking for clues on whose favor he needed to secure. Both were interrupted multiple times by men sent by Burrows, who had new questions, new invitations.

Martin received six invitations to dinner in the first day.

She asked him, once, if he would consider penning a quick letter with his new authority to have her uncle's apartment released to her, but he waved her aside and told her it would have to wait. Which was how she found herself, on the first night Martin accepted a dinner invitation, sitting in his new, grand office considering his signature.

He had left only half an hour before, immaculate in his crimson uniform, and would be with the Ladies Boyle for the next three hours, at least. That gave her time. She should have had her attention focused on the notebook, but she was growing weary of it, and of her small guest room, and of her seeming imprisonment in the Abbey. She wanted her uncle's apartment. She wanted to walk its rooms, and reconnect herself to her past, link herself to it so that she couldn't be pulled from the shore.

And Martin's support was a given - it was only a matter of time.

Geoff had taught her, when she was about to move out on her own for the first time, how to forge his signature. It had been a precaution, a weapon as sure as the pistol he'd given her. If a time came where she needed protection from the Watch, she could draft an order and sign it in her uncle's name - and he would support it, whatever it was.

He'd started by having her trace the lines of his signature through thin paper, but each copy had looked strange. It hadn't been his. Most of the Watch would never have noticed, but he was determined that there be no room for doubt. If the signature was her weapon, her armor would be its perfect mimicry of the original. It had to be perfect.

So he'd turned the page with his signature upside down, and asked her to copy it that way. There were no letters, only curves, and she'd done a far better job. It had still taken several weeks of practice before she could resist the urge to sketch in the curve of the G, but at the end of it, she produced perfect copies, sometimes even without a reference.

Callista reached out and touched the page with Martin's signature. He'd asked her to have it delivered to the Academy earlier that day, but she'd conveniently left it in one of the piles on his desk. It bore a perfect specimen of his signature, large enough to study, and with a deep breath, she rotated the page.

She rotated the page she'd drafted as well.

Martin would surely hold up what she was about to sign his name to, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to ask permission. No, he would have to support her after she had the apartment back, as he had when she'd claimed she was his assistant.

Callista readied her pen, and moved it in loops in the air, practicing his scrawl a few times. Then she put it to paper and emblazoned the order with a more than adequate copy of Martin's name.

As she set the pen down, there was a knock at the door. Callista stiffened; the ink needed a minute or more to dry properly, and there was still the seal to affix. But it couldn't be Martin, returned already.

Smoothing her uniform and tugging a few pages over the contents of the letter, she went over who else it could be. Another Overseer would be most likely. She went through her lists of meetings. She hadn't scheduled anybody for this evening, but it was possible that Rothwild had mistaken the time.

Or it could be Anise.

She went to the door and opened it before whoever it was could knock again.

It was Anise on the other side of the door. Callista had barely seen her since the installment ceremony, but her presence had been felt. Other Overseers had whispered about her, and more than one had asked Martin when the Oracle would be leaving.

"Good evening, Oracle Anise. I'm afraid the High Overseer is out for the next few hours."

"That is unfortunate," Anise said. She was still wearing her blindfold; since the first Oracle had retrieved her from the pub, Callista hadn't seen any of them wearing the strange, unsettling domed masks. "May I come in, all the same? I can say what I need to say to you as well as I can to him."

Callista eyed her for a moment, then nodded and stepped away from the door. "I'm afraid I can't offer you anything to drink, without his permission."

"Guards his cellars, does he?"

Martin hadn't actually asked her to check with him before pulling from his wine collection, but Callista found it an easy excuse to avoid hosting the woman longer than necessary. "He does," she said, as she led them over to the sitting area far from the desk. As always, Anise found her way. The light in the room must have been good enough to pass through the blindfold

The Oracle settled into her seat, hands placed on her knees. The mask was gone, but she was still covered from neck to toe to, and her hood was drawn up over her hair.

"I will be leaving shortly," she said.

Callista tried not to show her surprise. "So soon?"

Anise's smile took on that cruel edge again. "The High Oracle doesn't want me to overstay my welcome. I'll return, of course - in a few weeks, a few months - and in the meantime, our offices will communicate in other ways."

"I see."

"I would like," she continued, "to not only establish a correspondence with High Overseer Martin, but also with you. Separate, and confidential."

Callista leaned back in her seat, the better not to hunch forward in sudden wariness. "You want me to spy on him."

"We want two separate records of events, the better to compare with other sources. We prefer to find the truth of things. Not all of it is answered by the stars, not yet."

"And where will these letters need to go?"

"The tower of the High Oracle, off the shores of White Cliff - eventually. But for now, you will only need to leave them-"

"I will not leave correspondence about the inner workings of the Abbey anywhere that heretics might find it," she said, quickly.

"You'd rather Martin know you were sending us reports?" Anise asked, canting her head.

"Yes," she said. "It's a weakness, a vulnerability, otherwise."

"Then send your letters with his - he'll know where to take them. Perhaps I'll ask for a transporting case with two sides, each with its own key. Or will he have access to your key, as well?"

"I can keep a key," she said, teeth on edge.

"Of course you can," Anise said. She began to rise.

Callista rose as well, mastering her breath.

"Any last questions, Miss Curnow?" Anise asked, her voice still even and placid. With her eyes hidden, it was impossible to make out her expression.

She had a hundred; what they saw when they looked at stars, how they resisted the call of the Void- but she would find other ways to learn those answers.

"No," she said. "Thank you for your assistance these last few days, Oracle Anise."

"Be safe, Miss Curnow. I'll watch for you in the movements of the Void," Anise said. Callista watched as she bowed, then retreated from the room.

The Void. She shuddered, unable to untangle whether or not Anise's last words had been a threat.

Timsh's house towered above her, and she took a moment to steel herself. The letter in her hand seemed to burn as she approached the door and spoke with the doorman. While she gave her name and credentials, she noted his uniform. He was a man of the Upper Watch, and his presence made her uncomfortable.

Since when had even the rich barristers been able to purchase the deployment of Watchmen to their individual homes? The nobles, she knew, had long done just that - but they often contributed great sums to the Watch as a whole. It had been a gesture of gratitude on Geoff's part to send a few men to the estates on gala nights. Who was sending them now?

And when had a barrister gained so much influence?

The doorman disappeared into the house, and she waited as patiently as she could. The light was beginning to fail, and though the avenue was broad and well-patrolled, and her car was only a few feet away with two Overseers waiting for her return, it was hard not to feel her old wariness, or to let it combine with her guilt over the letter.

Finally, the doorman returned and waved her inside.

"Callista Curnow, assistant to High Overseer Martin," he said as they entered the foyer.

Arnold Timsh waited for them on the steps. She recognized him in an instant; he was the tall, thin man who had been present at her apartment building, the night she'd seen it condemned.

"Ah, Miss Curnow," he said, not descending to greet her. "To what do I owe the- pleasure, of such a late-evening visit?"

Her jaw tightened. It was foolish, to come so late, but Martin would have missed her at any other time.

"I've come to deliver an order from the High Overseer."

"That's not his jurisdiction," Timsh said, eyes narrowing. "I answer to the Lord Regent, Miss Curnow."

"Perhaps," she said, lightly, glancing to the doors to several offices visible on the main floor, "you can review the letter and we can discuss it in more detail?"

He eyed her. She waited for him to simply instruct her to leave the letter with him, but after a moment's consideration, he turned and lifted a hand. "Very well. My offices are above."

She followed him up two flights of stairs, passing a striking, vibrantly colored painting of the man in question. She caught a glimpse, too, of the second floor mezzanine, with its plush chairs and fine fixtures. At last they came to his handsome office, which was almost as large as Martin's. He settled behind his desk, folding his hands across his chest.

Callista held out the letter. He took it, turning it over and inspecting the quality of the paper.

"While you answer to the Lord Regent," Callista said, lifting a brow, "doing a favor for the High Overseer would not be without its own rewards."

He waved her into one of the low-slung armchairs across from his desk, and she sat on the edge of it before making herself relax, projecting Martin's style of confidence instead of her own hunched, pinched caution.

Timsh reached for a letter opener, breaking the seal of the High Overseer, then read over the order itself.

"Hmph. So his first act towards me is to get his assistant's house back?" he asked, looking up at her. He'd drawled assistant, almost sneered it, and she could feel his gaze prickling over her, measuring her.

"You said yourself, this is not his jurisdiction. He is doing me a favor."

The letter had been started by Martin, but he'd abandoned it half-finished. She'd copied what he had out into her own hand, then continued the argument. According to the order, her uncle's apartment had not been seized in connection with the plague, which made Timsh's authority to hold it questionable. Its connection to a traitor was undisputed, but the apartment had been cleared of all evidence by both the Watch and the Abbey. It was, at current, standing empty, when it should be returned to the existing next of kin.

His gaze returned to roughly that section of the page.

"But if I recall," he said, tapping the heavy paper, "you denounced your uncle, and severed your ties with him. You disowned him. You're hardly next of kin."

"The apartment should revert back to the family it belonged to, instead of being tied with the member that was cast out," she replied, smoothly.

He glanced up at her again. "Then you maintain he was a traitor, and deserves to be caught, tried, and executed?"

"Of course," she replied.

She'd practiced this daily since entering the Abbey proper.

"Surely," he pressed, "the apartment is... distasteful to you, then. A reminder of his wretchedness. I'm sure I can find another suitable set of lodgings for you, if the Abbey is being so negligent to deny you."

"I would like to reclaim the space. Better that a proper Curnow do it than somebody unfamiliar with the situation. It would be a symbolic gesture, as well as an efficient one."

He tossed the order onto his desk and sat back, narrowing his eyes.

"Your employer," he said, "is walking a very fine line, Miss Curnow. This is quite obviously favoritism, and it's outside the bounds of his authority. He should consider this carefully. It might create quite a stir."

"Less of a stir, I'd think," she said, "than if he kept his young assistant locked in the Abbey with all the Overseers."

"Very different stirs, perhaps." He folded his hands together, tapping one long, ringed finger against his knuckles. "I'll need to think it over. I suggest that he does, as well."

"This isn't a request, Barrister Timsh," she said, eyes narrowing. "And I am not just an errand girl."

"You have no real power, girl," he sighed. "And it's humiliating to see you act as if you do. You're there to do whatever it is he has you do - pour his wine, warm his bed, flatter his guests. But the Abbey will not recognize you formally. You have no actual rank."

"The High Oracle confirmed my position," she said, flushing. She felt no embarrassment, however.

Only rage.

She struggled to control it.

"And what do we in Dunwall know of the High Oracle? The Oracular Order holds sway only in the Abbey. For somebody claiming such influence, you need a sharp education on the way things work. So go tell your master that he should really consider if crossing me is the correct decision, hm? And while you're at it, feel free to repeat all I've told you. He'll agree with me, if he's smart."

Callista shot up from her chair, but before she could cross to the desk, there was a knock. Whoever it was didn't wait for Timsh's permission, and Callista turned, half-expecting to see Martin.

Instead, it was two servants carrying a painting. It had the same vibrant colors as the portrait on the stairs, the same strange style, but this painting was of a woman. Timsh swore, softly, then stood and went to it, holding out one shaking hand towards the canvas.

"They didn't have to remove any of the painted surface, sir," one of the maids carrying it said.

"They've changed the surface, somehow," he said, staring at the work.

Callista stared at it, too. The woman's face seemed otherworldly. Dangerous. The colors drew her forward, and she edged closer to Timsh. She could feel something pulsing from it, then realized it was the sound of her own heart, beating in strange tempo.

"They- they varnished it, sir. They said it would keep the beetles off it in the future. They've taken your portrait for the same treatment-"

"What! Get it back here. They should have checked, damn it!" he snarled, and the maids retreated, still holding the painting. "Stop! Give it here!"

The maids surrendered the portrait, and Timsh seemed to calm only once his fingers curled around the gilded frame. He stared at the woman in the portrait a moment longer, schooling his breathing, before carrying it behind his desk. He leaned the frame gingerly against the wall.

"Out," he said, and the maids retreated. Callista made to follow them, but was interrupted by Timsh's harsh, "Not you."

The maids closed the door behind them. Callista turned, slowly.

Something about the painting seemed to shiver as she approached, and Timsh's face had grown relaxed. He watched her with feral eyes.

Ah. This was the part where he'd offer her an alternative. She could see it now - the bargain of debasing herself for access to her uncle's home.

She considered it, before deciding that the ramifications to her position at the Abbey were too great. If she really did have little power, stripping away what was there would be foolish.

But Timsh didn't speak. He only watched her, then looked back at the order on his desk. He brushed his fingers against the page, and the motion looked strange, out of place, with his thin, harsh features.

He reached for a pen.

"Barrister Timsh?" she asked.

"I've changed my mind," he said, the cadence of his words changed from how he'd spoken earlier.

There was nothing strange about it except for the style. Timsh followed her gaze. "It's a one of a kind," he said. "Painted by one of Sokolov's better, but little known, apprentices. Beautiful, isn't it?"

"It is," she agreed, pulling her gaze from it.

She watched as Timsh smiled and signed the order and stamped it with his seal.

He pushed the paper across the desk to her.

"Thank you," she said, "for reconsidering."

He chuckled, softly, as she gathered up the page. "Art moves me, Miss Curnow. You're lucky to be the benefactor of it."

Callista's eyes went to the painting, but it was just pigment on canvas. "I hope they retrieve your portrait before it's varnished."

"They will," he said. "Now. I have business to attend to."

Callista left the room with the order clutched in her hands, mind spinning from the barrister's rapid moodswing. She'd never seen anything like it. At least, she supposed, it was hard to imagine him arguing his incapacity to do his job when his signature was in her hand.

She had her uncle's apartment back.

She took a deep breath, and set out to reclaim it.