Chapter 14
The courtyard leading to the Golden Cat was soaked in sunlight, and the plants that spilled from balconies and planters made the space an oasis in the city. She could barely smell the river, the air filled instead with floral notes and the heady perfumes that drifted from several open windows. There wasn't time to appreciate it, however, as she and Martin climbed to the front door, a squad of Overseers flanking them. Two preceded them, ignoring the watch officers who protested and argued, and going straight to the door, knocking loudly.
"By order of the High Overseer and the Abbey of the Everyman, submit yourselves to inspection!" Overseer Hume's voice was loud, perfect for the job. It sounded almost like a wolfhound's bark, and Callista decided she was grateful they had him. They'd decided to leave hounds behind for the mission, not wanting to terrorize the brothel itself, but having one in the form of a man was reassuring.
The doors opened, revealing an older woman with thick paint on her face. "Campbell had us inspected two months ago," she drawled, clearly unimpressed. "You're scaring my patrons. I'd appreciate it if you left and came back with an appointment, if you must."
Martin stepped forward, red coat brilliant in the sun. "Madame Prudence, is it not?"
She looked him up and down. "It is. So you're Campbell's replacement, then? What's the meaning of this?"
"We are acting on a tip, regarding heretical tools of worship," he said. "Probably nothing to worry about, Madame, but you'll understand that now, at the beginning of my term, with a city wracked by plague under my care, I must be responsive."
Prudence did an admirable job of hiding her sneer.
"I promise that we won't be long," Martin said. "And that if we find... the usual indiscretions in a place like this, we will make allowances. We're looking for a shrine, Madame, not the charms your girls keep in their garters."
"This requires an appointment. The Lord Regent-"
"I don't see what the Lord Regent has to do with any of this," he said, baring his teeth in something approximating a smile. "And we are acting on a tip from a verified source. I wouldn't like for whatever shrine we're here to dismantle to be moved because you allowed its owner notice. Step aside, Madame. Do not make this more difficult than it has to be, or I will have you inspected for heresy."
"Heresy!"
"You certainly are protesting against a common good. Do you approve of such shrines in your place of business, then?"
Callista could see the madame turn red where her thick powders feathered out along her brow and jawline. Prudence swallowed, thickly, then stepped back. "I don't appreciate your tone or technique, High Overseer, but we are friends of the Abbey here."
"No doubt," he drawled, and stepped over the threshold. Hume and the others poured in around him, and Callista rejoined him in the plush, sumptuous interior of the brothel. It was nicer than she'd imagined, all gilded and covered in red velvet, but she'd heard enough stories from her uncle to know that the ladies - a few of whom peered out from the fine staircase to their left - were not so well-off as their surroundings implied. Illness and violence had always lived in these halls.
Hume broke his men into three groups, and Martin watched on appraisingly. Two were to inspect the main parlor and associated side rooms, while one was headed into the living quarters. It was the last one that Martin and Callista fell in with. Shrines, of course, were more likely to be found in private spaces.
They passed from the crimson and gold into a grey, drab, chilled stairwell. Unused furniture and paintings were tucked beneath the stairs and leaned up against the walls. They moved methodically, clearing each floor, each washroom, each storeroom. Prudence followed, wringing her hands. She protested when they searched her office, and the fine bedroom that she occupied, and she tried to pull girls aside and whisper to them.
The Overseers, of course, didn't allow it. One Overseer would remain behind after every whispered exchange, questioning the girl, who would invariably turn pale and fearful. Callista watched them until the stairs obscured her view, then adjusted her sling and fixed her eyes forward.
At last, they reached the top floor, a long narrow hallway with metal-shuttered windows and a few doors.
"It's just the girls' rooms," Prudence said. "They change over so often, and they're three or four to a room - no space or time to build shrines."
"You would be surprised," Martin said, airily. Callista caught a feral curl in his lips.
If they were going to find the heir, it would be here. She was sure. Martin was, too.
She held her breath.
The first room held only a woman, sleeping, so exhausted she barely stirred when the boots of the Overseers shook her floorboards. They searched the room, and she groaned and rolled over in bed.
They found a rune tucked into the small writing desk.
What followed was the inevitable delay; Martin had planned on it, but it still made Callista anxious, watching them rouse the woman and drag her from the room, while another Overseer took the heavily worked piece of bone. Prudence, of course, threw up her hands and said that there were no shrines, and wasn't the rune enough? Hadn't they said they weren't hear to search for charms?
No, but they couldn't simply leave one that they had found.
While one of Martin's men argued with her, Martin ignored her and went to the second door himself. The Overseers blocked the hall and behind them, the courtesan screamed and begged. The cacophony was overwhelming. Callista slipped between the Overseers, ignored the plinkity-plonking of the music boxes, and jointed Martin.
The second door refused to open.
"I need a key!" Martin shouted over the din. "Madame Prudence!"
But Prudence was already down the stairs.
Martin swore.
"This," he whispered, "is where the City Watch will be brought in. She'll have them up here in a minute or two, ostensibly to protect her girl."
It wasn't the worst case scenario, but it wasn't good.
Martin eyed the door. With his back injured, he couldn't kick the door open, though she could see the bunching of his muscles as he considered it. She flinched as the Overseers wrestled the woman to the floor behind them. Down the hall, at the third door, women clustered, peering out into the hall, murmuring and swearing.
Turning to them, Martin smoothed out his jacket. "Nothing to worry about," he said, pleasantly, his unabashedly charming smile in place. "I'm sure all of you are just fine. Now- does one of you happen to know where the key is to this room?"
For a moment, nothing happened. The girl behind them continued to scream, then began to cry, then weep. Footsteps retreated down the stairs.
Then one of the women stepped from the far room. She held a key in her hand. "I was on caregiving duty. Don't tell Prudence," she said, and held it out.
Martin took it. "Of course not," he said. "Thank you for being of service to the Abbey."
She eyed him for a long moment, then nodded. "Of course. It's just- we hear you're better than Campbell. We appreciate that."
He inclined his head. "I understand."
Callista didn't, but it wasn't difficult to put together some rough understanding. She watched the women disappear from the door, then shut it firmly behind them.
They were alone. The Overseers had taken their quarry back down the stairs, and would now be accidentally-on-purpose guarding the path up from the Watch.
Martin looked at her, holding the key. "It's us going in first after all," he said.
She nodded.
He slipped the key into the lock, turned it, then pushed the door open and stepped back.
Callista peered into the long, narrow room. The window was covered but the room was bright with lamplight. It shone off scraps of fabric and old curtains that were draped across rickety furniture and from the ceiling. It made a little fort, and standing tucked in its corner, staring warily at the door, was a girl all in white.
Emily Kaldwin.
She'd covered her walls with drawings, and even now she held a crayon as if it were a weapon. Her eyes darted from Callista to Martin and back.
She swallowed, her tiny throat working around fear too large for her.
Callista stepped forward, in front of Martin, and crouched down. Her hips and thighs protested; she ignored them. "Lady Kaldwin?" she asked, softly.
"Yes," the girl said, lifting her chin. Her jaw trembled slightly. "Have you come to free me, then?"
"Yes. Yes, we have," she said, smiling. "We've come to take you home."
The motions were familiar. She'd comforted more than her share of nervous or frightened pupils before, though none, of course, of Lady Kaldwin's status or predicament. Usually it had fallen to her to care for bumped knees and bruised egos. Callista's old, indulgent smile sat strangely on her face, though, and Emily Kaldwin did not approach.
How long had it been since she'd had a child in her care? Only a few months, surely. And yet-
"You're not High Overseer Campbell," the girl stated, looking at Martin. "And Overseers aren't women. I don't trust you."
Callista swallowed, thickly, and stood up, her limbs stiffening with afront.
Martin only chuckled. "Things have changed, Lady Kaldwin. Haven't you heard the announcements these last few weeks?"
A dark look passed over her face, and she twitched, glancing back over her shoulder. Callista followed her gaze.
There was a picture tucked under the mess of furniture that served as her fortress, and she made out a crude drawing of Corvo Attano. There were scribbles of red across the page, then a layer of flowers hastily drawn on top of it, as if to hide that there'd ever been blood.
"My name is Martin, your eminence," he said, kneeling now. "And you are correct - I am not Thaddeus Campbell. For one thing, I'm here to protect you, and Dunwall."
"He was a stupid, mean old man," Emily pronounced, gravely.
"He was. Of that I am entirely sure. And this is Miss Callista - you are right that women are not Overseers, but I've made an exception for her. She's my assistant. She also used to be a governess."
Emily regarded her, looking her up and down with a slow, measured track of her gaze. "... I don't like sums," she said.
Her voice trembled.
For all her standoffishness, for all her imperial training, the girl was close to breaking. Callista could still see that, even if she was no longer certain of her ability to offer comfort. There were sounds on the staircase behind them, no doubt Madame Prudence followed by guards or Overseers.
They would need to present a united front, for best effect.
"Will you let us take you home, Lady Kaldwin? I assure you, my days of teaching sums are over," Callista said, leaning forward, bracing her hands on her thighs.
"I want to get out of this place," Emily said, looking around. She took a few steps towards the fortress in the corner, then crouched and began gathering up certain drawings, picking selectively through her piles. She rolled them up in her small hands until they looked like an old-fashioned edict. Her white stockings were grubby about the knees, and her hands trembled.
She stopped, at last, in front of a drawing posted on the wall of two men, mirror images of one another, glowering down at her.
She tore it in two with a huff.
"And I want them dead," she said, shoving the scraps at Callista.
Callista accepted them, as if they were flowers from the garden, or a bug found beneath the steps. She stared down at the childish drawings of the Lords Pendleton.
"They will be called to trial," Martin said, smoothly. "And they will be punished for harming you. I swear to it."
"I want them dead," Emily repeated. "And I want it done publicly and horribly. Just like- just like they did to Cor-"
"A girl? I swear!" Madame Prudence's voice interrupted. A new rage of a slightly different flavor passed over Emily's face at the sound, before she schooled herself to utter blankness. Disdain radiated from the small girl. The amount of hatred in her bones was palpable, was soaked into the floorboards and shutters of the room.
Prudence appeared in the doorway, and made a great show of widening her eyes (despite their heavy layers of paint that made the lids droop), and covering her mouth. "Why did nobody tell me there was a girl!" she bellowed.
Martin looked at Emily for a moment, then inclined his head and turned on his heel. He approached the woman at a saunter, then drew far too close for propriety.
Callista barely heard his purr of, "I would stop feigning ignorance, madame - better to say you were coerced and forced into it, reliant on the Pendleton fortune to keep these lovely ladies of yours fed and housed in a distressed city. It will go over better on the stands, I believe."
Beneath her paint, Prudence turned white, then narrowed her eyes and considered. She weighed her options, then stepped back. "Let me call you a car, then, to get this girl where she belongs."
Lady Kaldwin crossed the room, stomping heavily, and glared up at her.
"I am your Empress!" she snapped.
Prudence flinched. "Of course," she said, then sketched a mock curtsey. "My apologies. If, ah, I had known-"
Emily turned to look up at Martin. "She knew."
For a brief moment, it looked as if Martin would settle a hand on the girl's shoulder, but he only nodded. "I will take that into consideration. No, Madame Prudence, I believe I shall take my own car. Come along, then."
Callista came to the door and placed her hand just behind Emily's shoulders, not daring to touch. She escorted the girl into the middle of their attending squad of overseers, and descended the stairs out towards the main exit. Behind her, she could hear Prudence demanding restitution for the money she would lose from the girl the Overseers had dragged off.
She didn't hear Martin's answer.
Emily chose to sit beside Callista, when given the choice. At first, Callista felt that vague thrill of flattery that came when any creature - child, cat, bird - chose not to strike out but instead to curl up close by, safe in the knowledge that she could be trusted. It was certainly made stronger by the girl's lineage. Then, when the girl barely spared her a glance and focused wholly on Martin, she corrected her interpretation.
The girl didn't trust her, but she also didn't see her as much of a threat. It was the High Overseer who needed to be watched.
The car was empty except for the three of them, and they sped through the streets towards Dunwall Tower. The option of returning to Holger first had been quickly discarded at Emily's wrinkled nose and slightly-lifted chin.
"I don't like Hiram Burrows," she said as their car rounded a corner, in her high child's voice, her eyes narrowed in an attempt at cruel judgment. "I want him gone."
"It is true," Callista said, "that he's not the nicest man- but wasn't it the Pendletons who kept you?" She glanced up at Martin, quirking a brow. How much does she suspect?
"I don't want to see him," Emily replied. "I don't want to see him ever again. He was rude to me, and to mother, and to Corvo."
No clear answer, then.
"And he has been chosen as the Lord Regent by Parliament," Martin said, sitting with an arm over the back of his seat. "Unfortunately, you don't have a say in that. He must remain."
"I don't have a say?" Emily asked, then scowled and crossed her arms over her chest. "I should have a say! He's a rotten old sneaky-"
"All of that may be true, Your Highness." At a glare, he inclined his head. "Is true. But this is how the game is played."
"I'm too old for games now. They're silly child's things."
Callista looked at her thin arms, her small hands. She was still every inch a child, but Callista recognized the stubborn independence in her, the flares of barely hidden rage - and fear - in her eyes. Her mind likely felt caught between heavy, endless ice and a constantly burning fire, her body caught between boundless, nervous energy and dragging lethargy.
She'd felt it herself, when her family had begun to die - and she hadn't had to see them murdered.
"When I get home," Emily continued, "I will walk in the door, and I will look nasty Hiram Burrows in the eye, and I will tell him to kneel. And I will order the soldiers to go to Pendleton Hall, or- or wherever those horrible twins are, and I'll have them dragged to my feet in chains."
Martin held up a placating hand, and glanced to Callista with a clear request for help.
Callista turned in her seat. "You have your soldiers - us. We will take care of everything for you. You deserve rest, first, in a safe place. A large room, new clothing. Make Burrows wait until you allow him to see you - if he wasn't already bald, he would worry his scalp clean in the meantime."
"I don't want to wait," Emily returned, glowering. "I've been waiting for months, and mother never came back to life and Corvo never came to get me, and I'm sick of waiting!"
"Understandably, Your Highness," Martin said, his tone soothing save for the slight uptick of nervousness. Beneath them, the car shuddered and the tone of its rattling along the rails shifted.
They were on the bridge to the Tower.
Callista worried at her lip, looking at the small Empress. She had spent her adult life learning to instruct and guide children, and she had spent her whole life learning to handle grief and the accompanying anger and impulsiveness, so why couldn't she come up with the correct solution here?
There simply wasn't enough time. The girl would never listen to a woman with a modicum of power whom she'd never met before.
"Let us take care of the Lords Pendleton, my lady," Callista said at last as the car jolted to a halt. "Let us prove that you can trust us. The army may be paid off, you understand."
Emily bowed her head.
"They're all wretched, aren't they," she whispered. "They all hate me. Mother said they loved her, and they loved me, but now she's dead and they're just a wretched pit of vipers, aren't they?"
Martin hummed low in his throat. "Many of them, yes. But do not fear, Your Highness- many know better than to turn against you. They did love your mother, and they do love you, and what you represent. You have numerous enemies, but they are countable, and therefore, they are vulnerable."
"I don't trust you," Emily said, grinding her heel into the floor of the car.
"I wouldn't ask it of you," Martin said. "Not yet. But I will endeavor to earn it from you. The Abbey is yours, to the man."
"... As it should be," Emily said, and lifted her head as the car door unlatched and opened.
They were met by an honor guard of the City Watch, several army and navy officials, and Hiram Burrows. They must all have heard about the raid, and some knew enough to be waiting for a return. Perhaps news had raced ahead of their car. It was an oddly mismatched group, and it spoke highly of who Burrows kept company with. Many of the Watch wore expressions of relief or wonder or slight nerves, while the military were wary, but highly controlled. Burrows bowed as Emily stepped from the car, and inclined his head with solemn dignity.
Martin stepped out behind Emily, and Callista joined him.
"My Empress," Burrows said, straightening up with another incline of his head. "I am relieved to see you safe again."
Emily said nothing.
"Your Excellency," Martin said, stepping forward to the girl's side. "We have ascertained who kept Lady Kaldwin in bondage these long months. My men are primed to move against the traitors."
Callista watched the tightening of the muscles around Burrows' mouth, the slight narrowing of his eyes. She watched the subtle twitch of his fingers before he folded both hands behind his back. "Am I correct," he said, slowly, "that she was found at the Golden Cat?"
"You are," Martin said, voice deep and grave. "A deplorable place to keep a child of any sort, let alone the Empress of Dunwall."
Burrows looked sharply to the Watchmen. "Have you any explanation as to why all the officers stationed at that establishment never reported a small girl?"
"They kept me locked in a room," Emily said, sharply. "I want their heads, Royal Spymaster."
He flinched, but hid it in a smooth step forward, then sank to one knee. "Anything, my Empress. I am to be your protector and your right hand. Tell me who it was who kept you captive."
"Men in whaling masks kidnapped me on the day my mother was murdered," Emily said, hands fisted at her sides. She looked straight at Burrows, never wavering. "They used dark magic. They kept me for several days in an abandoned apartment. And then they handed me over to two men in a railcar."
"Did you get a look at their faces?" Burrows asked, feigning rapt attention. Callista could see the calculations moving within his skull. How much did she know? Would she risk accusing him? Would she proclaim Corvo's innocence?
Callista couldn't answer those questions, either, and it left her with a deep unease.
"They were lords Morgan and Custis Pendleton, and they were cruel and traitorous, and I want their heads."
Emily's eyes bored into Burrows' face, her lower lip trembling only slightly, her fists tight enough to make the tendons stand out on the backs of her hands. But if she knew Burrows was involved in her mother's death, she had the strength to stay silent about it.
Callista's attention moved again to Burrows. He rose, his long, narrow limbs reminding her of a wading bird. His expression was grave and still, and he frowned, considering the accusation.
"Then you shall have them," he said at last. "We will go at once to arrest them, and put them before a tribunal. They will answer for whatever part they played in Attano's plot."
Your story's slipping, Callista thought. Attano would never have handed Emily over to anybody who would have kept her in a brothel - it was unthinkable. The people would question it. Even when the twins ended up dead in a cell - conveniently, before they could stop caring about whatever bribes they were receiving or any hope of salvation, before they started talking - it wouldn't hold.
"Corvo didn't kill my mother, Spymaster," Emily said, spitting the words and ignoring his new title. "It was another man. Corvo tried to save us!"
Burrows' lip twitched, faintly, towards a reactive snarl. He mastered it. "There is, I am sure, much to untangle regarding what happened that day. First, though, let us finish this one. I will go to Parliament with these fine soldiers and we will arrest the Pendletons, now."
The crowd stirred. Martin stiffened. He hadn't had time to pass down orders of his own. She could feel their control over the situation slipping.
"I would accompany your raiding party," Martin said, stepping forward. "Miss Curnow, as well. As we were the ones who rescued the young Empress-"
"I will come, too," Emily interrupted. Her eyes blazed. "No more talking. Spymaster?"
"Of course," Burrows said, with another bow. "May we take your car, High Overseer? It will be a great deal faster, I imagine, then calling one of our own."
"It will only fit the four of us," Martin said. "Let me call my men-"
"There is a convoy - it's hardly fit for the Empress, though. They will meet us there."
Callista was the first into the car, and there was a moment's tense silence as Martin decided where to sit. Across from her, and she would end up with either Burrows or Emily as a companion - but next to her, and Emily was forced to sit beside the Spymaster.
He chose to sit across. Emily sat down beside Callista, as she had before, and Burrows across from her. It was a tight fit - the car had only been designed for two passengers. As the door closed them in and the electric lights brightened, she watched the two men across from her shoot each other cold looks.
The car jolted to life.
Emily showed few signs of the long day - and the long months before - wearing on her, except for her silence. She made no more pronouncements or demands, and all her energy seemed to be turned inward. What was she battling? Anger? Exhaustion and the desire to simply cry with relief at being free? Or cry in horror at being let out into a different, less caring world than the one she'd been taken from?
Surely she'd noticed the Regent's red banners on the high Tower walls, so different from her line's bright blue dyes.
"What motivated the Pendletons, do you think?" Martin asked, with all the appearances of idleness, as they approached the Parliament building. Beside him, Burrows shifted uncomfortably, his long limbs not suited to the confined space. Martin's comparatively stockier frame slotted in more comfortably, and dominated their shared seat. "It couldn't have been money."
Callista watched Burrows through her lashes while pretending to inspect her gloves. Would he confess to the Pendletons' dire financial straits? Was he the sort of liar who cleaved to the truth whenever possible?
The former Royal Spymaster should be an expert on the subject. She would devote herself to the study of his tactics.
"Blackmail would not have continued to sway them with Attano in prison, and now dead," Burrows mused. "But they are not of the political breed - they go instead where money and power is greatest. Perhaps," he said, inclining his head to Emily, "they meant to bring you forward themselves at a later date, trusting or hoping that they could sway you to not implicating them. To be the rescuers of the Empress would have been a great social and political boon."
His gaze flicked to Martin.
Martin adjusted his cuff.
"Or perhaps Attano always intended to steal you back from them," Martin offered.
"Corvo didn't have me kidnapped," Emily said, looking away. "... But he did hate them."
"A bit elaborate for a plot to get the Pendletons out of power, but perhaps-"
"This is hardly the time, gentlemen," Callista said, placing a hand on Emily's forearm as the girl threatened to rise from her seat. "Her Highness is very brave and strong, but she escaped her captors only today. Let us put aside theories until we have them in custody."
Emily jerked her arm away. "Do not touch me," she hissed.
Callista pulled back, inhaling sharply.
"Miss Curnow is correct," Burrows said, slowly. "My apologies, Your Highness."
"You're all wrong, anyway. Because Corvo didn't have me kidnapped." She stared them down. Martin looked away. Burrows took a moment longer, then he, too, turned from her.
The car was silent until it slowed to a halt a few minutes later. Outside, they could hear a few barked orders; the guards had arrived before them, as Burrows had promised. When the doors opened, they stepped out into the sunlight and were enfolded by a squad of officers of the Upper Watch and two army men. Parliament stood before them, and with only a quick pronouncement from Burrows, they were climbing the steps.
The lords were on recess, and the guards climbed quickly to the hall where the Pendleton offices stood. Callista kept an eye out for Treavor, but couldn't see his pallid form anywhere in the crowd that was clustered around the doors in question, pressing into the space that the Pendleton's clerk would have usually occupied. Callista heard Martin curse softly.
"What's this!" Burrows shouted as their contingent met the onlookers, but before he could demand that the crowd part, Emily had slipped away. She pushed through the forest of bodies and to the door, and just as Callista lost sight of her, she heard her cry out,
"Open this door!"
One of the soldiers who had been able to push through to the front raised a hand.
"Out of the way, on orders from the Lord Regent and Her Highness, Emily Kaldwin!"
His voice boomed and the hall seemed to ripple, the onlookers' whispers turning more frantic. They hadn't heard yet. There had been no public announcements. The sea parted, and Callista pushed her way with Martin to the doorway, cursing the sling she still wore. The fine wooden door was shut tight.
"On the order of the Empress, open this door!" the soldier called.
There was no answer.
Burrows joined Martin with a snarl. "There were two gunshots heard five minutes before we arrived - that's why the crowd is here. Get those doors open!" he shouted.
Emily moved out of the way of the soldier, and watched as he tried the latch. It was locked. Her expression hardened. She stood motionless as he tried the door, first with his boot, then with his shoulder. Callista saw the anger building in her again, but before it could surface, the soldier leveled his pistol at the door just beside the lock, and fired. Callista's ears rang and Emily flinched, and by the time both had recovered, the lock had been broken open.
The door swung open.
Martin swore again and pushed into the room.
One of the fine chairs had been overturned. A cigar, only recently burned out, had rolled halfway across the floor from one of the great desks, its path ending in a pool of blood and brain matter already growing sticky. One of the twins was sprawled across the floor, his life ended by a single shot to the temple, but preceded by a long struggle, evidenced by fallen books, scuffed furniture, and his rumpled furniture where he had been grabbed, dragged, held.
The other twin sat behind his desk, his head fallen forward and half-removed by a shot through the roof of his mouth.
Emily walked into the room and crossed the rug until her shoes nearly touched the pool of blood. She stared down at the lifeless body, its eyes already clouding, its features slackened in death. The room was silent as she crouched beside the body and reached out one hand, as if to close the eyes. Her fingers touched his cheek, then dropped to his cravat.
Callista watched, frozen, as the small Empress tore his cravat pin loose, inspected it, then stood up. Emily's jaw was tightly clenched as she crossed to the second twin, and she stood across the desk from him, peering at his broken skull, the matted hair and blood and bone.
Burrows pushed past Callista. "This is- this is not something you should have to see, Your Highness," he said, reaching for her.
Emily shrugged him off.
"Did they kill themselves?" she asked.
One of the soldiers opened his mouth, but Martin held up a hand. "The one at his desk- was that Custis?- yes, he did. Undoubtedly. As for Morgan... it would appear there was a struggle."
Burrows narrowed his eyes. "This is not suitable conversation."
"I want to know how they died," Emily said. "I want to see it and understand how this was taken away from me, too."
"They likely received news that the Golden Cat had been raided," Martin said, ignoring Burrows. "Perhaps they already had agreed it was best to end things themselves before they were arrested, if the day ever came, or maybe they decided in the moment. One was willing to go through with it. The other... apparently wasn't.
"But twins are often particular of how and when they die. I've heard before that they can't stand to live if their counterpart dies. Perhaps Lord Custis took it into his own hands to put Lord Morgan out of his suffering, then ended his own."
Emily's face contorted into something inhuman, and she drew back her arm, then pitched the cravat pin into the wreckage of Custis's head. "It was my right to have them hanged," she whispered. "They are traitors to the Empire, and to me."
"Yes, Your Highness," Burrows said, reaching out with placating hands. "But we need to allow their bodies to be gathered up and-"
"What do you do with plague victims?" Emily asked, turning to face him. "When they're dead. Do you burn them? I heard an announcement that the- the-"
"Crematoria," Martin supplied.
"That the crematoria can't keep up. So where do you put them?"
"In- Rudshore, Your Highness," Burrows stammered. "The district is flooded and uninhabitable, and has been sealed off. But the Pendletons have a family mausoleum."
"Dump them in Rudshore," Emily said.
"Your Highness, the other nobles will-"
"Dump them in Rudshore. They're traitors. They don't deserve a funeral."
"I agree," Martin said. "Though I would like to state that a watery grave is, while more dangerous to the spirit, not entirely dishonorable."
Callista waited for Emily's objections, her arguments, but instead the girl looked at Martin thoughtfully, took several breaths, then asked, "Then what would you suggest?"
"Feed them to the rats, Your Highness," he said, bowing. "Or leave them to rot in the Royal Interrogator's pits."
Burrows opened his mouth to protest, but Emily was grinning, a feral, gleeful grin, and it stopped the Regent cold.
He swallowed.
"Well, we can't encourage the rat population," he said. "So the Royal Interrogator it is. If it's alright with you, Your Highness, to have such heinous traitors under your roof?"
"Show me where you put their bodies," Emily said, "so I can be sure it's to my liking."
Burrows smoothed down the front of his coat. "... Of course, Your Highness."
Emily turned, at last, from the bodies. "I'd like to go home now."
They left her in the Tower.
Callista looked back over her shoulder no fewer than five times on the way out to the car that would take them back to Holger. It felt wrong, to abandon her there, but she'd refused to stay at the Abbey. Burrows had hovered nearby, and it had been impossible to press her. Whatever happened now happened outside of their direct control, and the thought made her stomach clench and her heart stammer.
Martin settled into the car and held out a hand. She ignored it and climbed into the car on her own, sitting on the edge of her seat, her hands clasped between her knees. The doors closed, and the lights flickered on.
"A drink?" he asked, hand drifting to the compartment.
"Not right now."
The car smelled like Burrows' cologne and the sickly-sweet perfume that must have been clinging to Emily.
Martin opened the compartment and withdrew a cigar. He handled it gingerly, inspecting it, meditating upon it.
"It was a good maneuver," he said at last.
"Rescuing the heir?"
"Killing off the twins," he said. "I would wager that neither of them died by their own hand, or their brother's."
She scowled. "He's fast to act."
"He is. He may be paranoid, but he's hardly foolish." Martin sighed. "This is bold, though. The twins' death will mean that Treavor takes their seats in parliament, and their votes. He has to know that Treavor is not wholly loyal."
"So the bribes will begin," she said. "And now that a Kaldwin is back on the throne, how loyal do you thinkTreavor will be to us?"
"Well, we went behind his back, and he lost out on all the glory and gained only an association with treason." Martin frowned, then reached into the compartment for the small metal punch and box of matches. "It's undoubtedly a very good thing that we rescued the heir. She does not trust Burrows, but she is... amenable to us, at least to some extent. And with your prior experience as a governess, perhaps we could move to install you in her court. A liaison to the Abbey, and a maternal figure for her. You could shelter her."
"No."
Martin paused, inches away from snipping the end from his cigar. "No?"
"It would never work. Burrows wouldn't let me that close to her - and I am no longer governess material, I'm afraid."
She sat back, looking up at the narrow window at the top of the door. Red brick sped by.
"It's only been a few months," Martin said, and she listened for the faint snip of the punch. It never came. Instead, she heard the soft sounds of Martin putting the whole arrangement away.
Callista said nothing.
What she'd felt at the girl's side was- unsettling. Upsetting. She'd felt distant, and confused, and frozen.
Martin's uniform rustled as he shifted, pushing himself over to her seat, straight in her gaze. He leaned close, good hand settling on her knee. His voice dropped in pitch as he said, "If this is about our indulgences-"
"It's not," she said. "It has everything to do with who I've become. The woman who is your assistant is not a good choice to raise an Empress, even if that's what you want of her." She shook her head, peeling his hand from her knee. "The Miss Callista of the schoolroom couldn't survive in your world."
Martin withdrew his hand and sat back, looking her over. Callista turned her attention from him. His hand on her knee had made her heart flutter, but deep, deep under her frustration. There was reordering to be done in how she understood the person she saw in the mirror.
The woman who could forge the High Overseer's signature, shoot a man, watch torture and murder and think first and foremost about its effects on her future and not on the turning of her stomach- she was a very different woman than the girl who had begun to teach because it was the only acceptable option presented to her. Soon, she would be unrecognizable.
Powerful, yes, but unrecognizable.
She rolled the thought about her mind.
"What would you say to being her tutor in Abbey matters only?" Martin asked, voice soft. "I want you near her. You may not be a governess anymore, but you're far more suited to winning her loyalty and dependence than I am."
"I don't know enough."
"Then study."
"She wants your power," Callista countered, shaking her head. "She wants to have you as her weapon. She doesn't want comfort. Comfort would mean admitting she was scared, and admitting she was scared would mean admitting she was weak. She won't, if she can help it."
Martin chuckled. "You may not be a governess, but you still understand her child's mind."
Callista's smile was small and grim.
The car pulled up to Holger, and the doors opened. She stepped out first, Martin following a few moments after.
Callista looked towards Clavering. "Do you need anything else this afternoon?"
Martin shrugged. "Time to think. Time to observe. The announcements should be going out soon. But I want you here, Miss Curnow. I need your talents of perception."
"I'll be in the library, then," she said, and separated from him. Her hands trembled faintly. The smells of the whorehouse clung to her, as did the metallic stink of blood that had soaked into her clothing at Parliament. The Lords Pendleton were dead, and it had been a clever maneuver. The public, not knowing of Burrows' involvement, would see the apparent suicide as shame and terror that they had been found out. It would make for a good narrative. Meanwhile, it ensured that the twins didn't turn on their benefactor the moment they were asked to do more for him than idle about a brothel for months on end.
Burrows was very clever indeed. Emily did not have a chance of speaking out against him, not while she was so young and he controlled every aspect of her state. There was nobody alive to verify her story, except for Martin, and Martin would never risk it. Which meant- what?
They worked for power within the framework Burrows provided for them?
It felt- anticlimactic. They were hardly the heroes she had imagined them being. The city was still riddled with plague, the blockade wouldn't lift, and the only difference was that maybe the people would have a little hope restored, while a girl rotted away in a Tower.
She found herself a small desk in the library, on the upper floor, and took up a biography of High Overseer Rhye Mattson. It was, of course, a completely authorized biography, and so there were only a few hints to the reality of the man. A sentence here, an anecdote there that was clearly exaggerated to a specific end- but the focus on another life, even one as quietly brutal as Mattson's, gave her a bit of breathing room. Here was the man who had formed the Trials of Aptitude, and here, in the pages, was a sanitized description of just what went on there. Tales of boys taken from their beds in the middle of the night reworked to emphasize their selection, their honor, their uniqueness. And there, as the story continued, was the quiet abandonment of the unique, until all that remained were obedient soldiers, highly crafted, highly dangerous, and highly uniform.
Martin had bypassed all of that, somehow. There was a proscription in the book that all Overseers be so recruited, and yet Martin had never gone through the thinly-veiled horrors that all his fellows had. She wondered if that made him more or less dangerous.
His identity hadn't been beaten out of him, but he'd also had fewer chances to truly draw upon the brutality and certainty of his order.
She was musing on how Campbell had survived the Trials when she heard footsteps. Lifting her head, she saw a masked Overseer approaching her. He held a letter in a thick envelope.
"A message for you, Miss Curnow," he said, setting it on the desk.
"From who?" she asked, not reaching for it.
"Unknown, Miss Curnow."
His voice sounded familiar. Windham? But it was so difficult to guess, with all the identical masks, the similar builds. Still, the way he saluted her before leaving implied that he was at least on Martin's payroll.
She took the envelope. It had not been opened, but that meant little; the contents could have been removed from an original envelope, and placed into this new one. The handwriting on the front was unfamiliar.
The envelope was made of heavy, oil-coated paper, the better to travel. It took a bit of force to force the paper open. Inside were several sheets of paper of varying weights and varying degrees of damage.
She glanced around, then spread them carefully over her desk.
The pages were coded. It was either that, or they were written in gibberish, and the cost of sending such a letter seemed to preclude that. She ran her fingers over the paper. Better to work this out in her apartment, or in Martin's office- and yet she couldn't move.
There, the curve of an O- and there, the sharp angles of an M-
It was Geoff's handwriting. Masked, but not well enough.
Her hands trembled. She looked around again, this time with more frantic energy, but she was alone. She read over the pages again, and again, the patterns of nonsense dancing fast in her head, threatening to burn up entirely. But the code was far simpler than Campbell's, and with a few deep breaths, she'd already found the lynchpin of it all.
She dared not write out a translation, but the words unfolded, haltingly, horribly, in her mind:
My dearest Callista,
I am safe. I understand that sending this letter might make me considerably less so, and that this letter may never reach you at all, but for all my discipline I couldn't keep from writing you. Word has reached me that Teague Martin is now High Overseer, and I hope that, if you have not gone to him yet, you go to him soon. He is not a good man, or even an honest man, but he is a powerful man who I believe will honor his debt to me.
Do not ask too much of him, or grow too close; his power is dangerous, and he is the type of man who consumes all those in his vicinity. But, I implore you, use him to your advantage. Have him give you a letter that saves you from eviction, and have him give you enough medicine to survive the plague. Find someplace safe, someone safe, and endeavor to be as quiet and small as you can.
If any harm has come to you following my treason, I am the saddest man alive. I did what I had to do, but it was a rash act, a violent act, and I am not proud of it. I only hope I have not struck a blow against Dunwall so mighty that it shakes the city's foundation.
Campbell was a bastard. Let his death be a blessing, not a curse.
I think every day and night of your safety. It has always been my highest goal to guard you, and to give you as best a life as could be asked for in a city like Dunwall, in a world like ours. If I could be there, I would.
I wish I could enclose names of men you could trust, but I am at a loss. Here, then, are names of men you may wish to approach, but please do so with caution.
Reginald Black.
Farley Havelock.
Darion Medford.
Percy Bly.
If you can, I would advise that you continue to seek jobs with the middle nobility. They will be taking their children from the city soon, as the high nobility did last month. I know my acts will sour many of those relationships, but perhaps it will serve you in good stead in others.
If you can, get out of the city.
All my love,
Your uncle Geoff.
Callista touched the list of names. The first two she recognized, of course, and her stomach soured. Her uncle's ability to read men seemed-
Slightly off, at best.
Farley was useful, to be sure, but his debt to Geoff didn't go so far as Geoff maybe believed. Without her connections to Martin, he wouldn't have let her stay more than a night, and maybe wouldn't have defended her from the Overseers who came from her. And Watchman Black had obviously shifted his loyalties at the first opportunity. She remembered clearly his cruelty the day he had come to seize her uncle's apartment.
Envious, covetous men, both of them. As was Martin. Really, one was no better than the others.
Her thumb ran over the words, over parts where water or drink or tears had smudged the ink, and sighed. This was dangerous. It was also very like him. She had no reason to believe this wasn't from her uncle, which meant he was alive - and foolish.
She had to know who had delivered the letter, and where from, but he was long gone. So she gathered the pages up, tucked them back into the envelope, and made her way to Martin's office.
Business first. The aching, yawning pit of her heart could be dealt with later.
Martin poured her a glass of whiskey without asking, and didn't say a word until they were seated on the couches by the great windows. He held out his hand, and she passed over the envelope. She watched, knuckles white as she gripped her glass, as he paged through the letter, gaze flicking over the coded words.
"And you're sure this is from him?" Martin asked, before taking a long drink from his glass. He hissed as it went down, and a sniff at her tumbler told her why.
The stuff was kerosene.
She looked over at the crystal decanter it was in, dubiously. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I'm quite sure. I didn't think to get the name of the man who delivered it, though."
"But he's one of ours."
"Yes. How do you..." She frowned, looking back to him. "How do you tell them apart?"
"I've seen most of them without their masks," he said, shrugging. "And there are certain distinct differences in their builds and voices, and their posture, though of course that's minimized by their training."
"I think it was Windham," she said, "who delivered it, but I can't be certain."
"I could ask."
"Quietly, I think," she said, swirling the contents of her glass. "But only if he delivered it, not where it came from."
Martin took another sip of his whiskey. "Oh?"
"I think we can both appreciate how astounding stupid it was of him to send me a letter," she said, and knocked back half the glass at once.
It was crude and felt like fire punching into the soft tissue of her palate and throat as it went down. It was the sort of whiskey her uncle had never offered her, the kind he kept for bad nights after work, and she found that comforting even as the memory made her ineffably sad and angry. He could die for sending her the letter, after all, and probably would. Nobody was so good at sending messages that it couldn't be traced back to the sender.
Not even her. A response was out of the question, even if she'd known how to find him.
She looked over at Martin, who sat with his cheek pillowed on the fist of his good arm. "It's from Caulkenny," he said. "The whiskey. It's what I drank growing up. I don't know when they started exporting it, or why anybody started buying it, but it's-"
"Familiar," she said.
He nodded. "Good for days you want to break a man's neck, or shout until somebody shoves a knife in your back to stop you."
She frowned. "Your thoughts are dark."
"They often are." He tossed the envelope and pages back onto the table between them. "I'll inquire to Windham. He's a safe man to talk to, at least. We can hope that whatever series of messengers your uncle used, that he picked them carefully. If he did, it might be safe enough to trace back to him, if you wanted to send a response."
"I said no." She put her glass down. "And don't you dare make the decision for me."
Martin blinked, then set his own glass down. "I wouldn't."
"You nearly decided to send me to the Tower today," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
"It affected you that much?"
She stood up, and went to the window of his office.
Behind her, she heard him chuckle.
"I thought," he said, and she heard him stand, "that I made clear last night that you're terrifyingly far from being my pawn, Miss Curnow." He approached her, but she didn't give him the satisfaction of turning to watch. He settled his good hand on the window sill by her hip, caging her in with his arm and chest. He never touched her.
"And I thought," he continued, voice lowering, "that I made clear that ignoring that fact has only made me more erratic. I want very much to be able to control everybody's every move- but I can't control yours, and I don't want to."
"Unless I kneel and ask you to."
"In limited circumstances, yes," he murmured, breath ghosting over her ear.
She closed her eyes, letting the shiver that went through her pass unimpeded down her spine.
"I can see," he continued, "that you're very tense. I've arranged something that might help take your mind off our various distresses."
"People will notice if I go up to your rooms three times in two days," she cautioned, but her voice sounded thick, vaguely addled. Her belly was twisting itself in knots and lighting its furnaces. Her cheeks were stained red, visible even in the slight reflection from the window.
"We're not going to my rooms."
"Or the Cat more than once in a day."
His laugh was sharp and surprised, and she turned at last to see him pulling away slightly, grinning. "Not the Cat, either," he said, then held out his hand. "Somewhere quite proper where nobody can question why we're both there. How about that?"
Callista eyed him. "I'm not getting any more hints?"
Martin considered, his face going through several exaggerated expressions. "Oh- very well. Expect a dash of whale oil."