Chapter 15
Kaldwin Bridge was grand and gleaming in the afternoon sun, but it didn't lead to the docks or the slaughterhouses, and Callista frowned as they rattled over it. Martin merely looked calm as he flipped through Campbell's journal, noting down a few new translations.
The letter from Geoff sat just above her breast, tucked inside her uniform jacket. It felt heavy. She should have burned it before they left Martin's office, but she hadn't been able to bring herself over to the hearth, let alone light the flame and tend it until it was hot enough. No, she'd take care of it later that night, and until then she would guard its secrets.
If Martin had been able to decode the letter's contents, he wasn't showing it.
They left the bridge behind and passed through streets that seemed to grow narrower, if the sound of wind passing by the sides of the car was anything to go from. She was growing used to traveling by railcar, and was learning the slight changes in sound that signified different rails, different neighborhoods, different weather.
They slowed once for a checkpoint, and she heard something new; a faint crackling, followed by the bleat of an alarm, twice, deep in register.
Martin looked up. "Ah- he's got it up and running, then."
"What is it?"
"A new security measure. Burrows has been playing this close to his chest, but when I spoke to our host earlier today - shortly after we returned to Holger - he was quite open with his projects. It's an electrified field, powered by whale oil, that can be calibrated to let certain people through and vaporize others on contact."
She wrinkled her nose. "That's-"
"Going to be very useful to Burrows. Supposedly, it's to keep people to their districts in order to slow or stop the spread of the plague."
"But if there are ever riots-"
"Exactly." Martin's smile was grim. "And they are purely a state-run matter. I have no influence on how they're calibrated."
"It's related, then, to that security measure at the Tower?" She tried to think back, though her memories of the day remained foggy. Turns a man to ash. She'd thought of funerals. Cremation.
"Precisely. In fact, I think it was the same item, just on a smaller scale. He alluded today to the next phase of experiments, though. These are structured as gates, but he wants to build a variant more similar to a turret, that can stand alone and attack in all directions."
Callista shivered.
"I hardly think things are bad enough for that yet, though. If Burrows installs them anyway, it might be good for us."
"The people will hate it," Callista agreed. "Public support will fall."
"Burrows may claim not to care about public support, and he may think that he's protected himself against rioters, but he hasn't seen a city in rebellion before."
The car began to move again, and Callista fought the urge to turn in her seat, as if she could catch a glimpse of the terrible gate behind her. This would make travel even more difficult. Getting to the pub would be almost impossible. It would be best, then, to get word to Havelock.
If it was still profitable to keep him allied.
The car slowed to a halt, and the doors unlatched. Callista stepped out first, then blinked and turned in a slow circle. She'd never been in this district before, and she stared up at the tall buildings, many of which had larger upper levels that jutted out above the street. When she finished her circle, she found herself looking up at a metal-clad building, covered in heavy shutters, with officers of the Watch posted at every entrance and balcony.
Martin was already halfway to the door.
She caught up with a few quick steps, and watched as he greeted the posted officer and introduced them both. The door was opened without issue, and they stepped into a gloriously-lit building that was a strange mix of bizarre clutter and open opulence. It was a retrofitted warehouse, that much was clear, but there were fine flowers in fragile vases set on expensive tables just beside large boxes. Strange noises came from all corners.
Martin exchanged a few quick words with the guard, and then led the way to a brilliantly-lit section of sunken floor, which had several pillars of marble, and a few canvases. A Tyvian man with a heavy beard stood at one of them, considering it. He glanced over at them only momentarily.
"Miss Curnow, I present Anton Sokolov, Royal Physician," Martin said, clasping his hands behind his back. "Sokolov, this is my assistant."
He snorted. "And what will she do, hold my paints while I do your portrait?"
Callista flushed faintly, turning her attention to other parts of the room. She could see stairs leading up, and glass windows to a suspended second floor. Through the windows she could see books and greater finery. The whole building seemed like a strange inside-out warren. It made her uncomfortable in ways she couldn't name.
"I was rather hoping, actually, that you'd consent to paint her portrait," Martin said.
Callista's attention snapped back to the two men.
This was the surprise?
"I hardly think-" Callista was saying, when Sokolov said,
"Very well. It hardly matters, neither will take very long."
And he set down the palette he was holding and walked away.
Martin touched her elbow, lightly. "This is a great honor," he murmured. "He has to paint my portrait as a matter of civic duty, but beyond that... it can be difficult to convince him to let you sit for him."
"Then why-"
"I've offered him access to some of the heretical materials we've recovered in recent months. For my portrait, originally, to ensure it was- flattering. Given the now indefinite delay in getting new artifacts from Pandyssia via the Pendleton ships, it appears to have some sway," Martin said. "And perhaps because he wants to look at you a little more closely. He's a dog, Miss Curnow."
His eyes sparkled just a little.
"Well," she said, "I suppose- it wouldn't hurt to get to know the man Burrows has building his defenses."
"Not at all."
Sokolov returned a few minutes later with an assortment of pigments in jars, kept in a very fine case that had seen better days. Callista suspected it didn't usually hold paints, and instead held samples of- whatever it was that natural philosophers spent their days studying.
Whale oil, perhaps.
"Upstairs," he said. "And she can shed the sling she's not really using." Then he turned on his heel and headed for the stairs up to the enclosed second floor.
Callista looked at Martin, who shrugged his good shoulder. She took a deep breath, then followed, sliding her arm from the sling and folding it up.
Sokolov led them to what looked like a dining room, which had a row of books against one wall. He had already set up an easel and canvas facing that wall, and Callista looked at it appraisingly.
It would do well enough, she supposed.
Martin hummed low in his throat behind her, and she turned to find him rubbing at his jaw with his good hand. "Maybe not the books. She is more than a research fellow, doctor. As am I, for that matter."
"Yes? Then what would you have me do?" Sokolov asked, setting his case down on the nearby table and beginning to extract pigments. "Paint her in a boudoir? I don't have one of those here."
Callista flushed.
"No, no, I was thinking more..." He frowned. "The entrance hall at Holger would suit her more, for sure."
"It has horrible lighting. I refuse to work there." He sniffed. "I thought I made that quite clear today during my visit."
"Yes, you did," Martin said, smiling thinly. He turned about, slowly.
The books, Callista thought, were fine, though they were a bit... uninspired, she supposed. She looked around as well. Her eye caught the elements of the old warehouse, barely visible out one of the windows.
"Where we began was fine enough," she said, slowly. "Perhaps positioned so that the old machinery is within view."
Sokolov continued setting up. "Nonsensical."
"Tell me, what was the warehouse used for? Before?"
"Secondary processing of whale oil. Decanting, mostly," Sokolov said.
"Then I'd like to have the machinery for my backdrop, doctor," she said.
He looked up at her at last.
"I have a fondness," she said, "for the whaling industry. And the High Overseer is right - the books hardly suit me."
"The lighting down there is harsh, and will not be flattering," Sokolov said. "I can adjust the floodlights, but only so much. You won't like it."
"I'd rather it be accurate than flattering," she said.
He snorted, then returned his paint pots to their case. He worked quickly, his fingers nimble and stained with ink. "An interesting pet you've got there, High Overseer. A little more unique than I gave the both of you credit for."
Martin didn't respon. Callista tugged at the red fabric she'd tucked into her belt that day, nervously. It was a new sash, embroidered with the Abbey's symbol - far more proper than a scrap of cloth.
"Well, downstairs it is. Get yourselves drinks, I'll let you know when I'm set up," Sokolov said, then took up his paint case and left without the canvas. He likely had several more.
Martin went to the sideboard, in search of a bottle or a decanter, and found none. He frowned at it. "I'm not sure," he said, "if this is an intentional slight or just forgetfulness. The vagaries of genius are irritating, to be sure." He glanced over his shoulder. "I would have liked for his portrait to do you justice, you know. The lighting-"
"He'll make the lighting work if he wants to. If he doesn't, even the finest setting wouldn't help."
He inclined his head. "... True."
Martin considered her, then crossed the space between them and reached for the bit of fabric at her waist. He tugged it loose. "I wonder," he said as he held it first against her throat, then by her upper arm, "if I could introduce red into your uniform more permanently. The black already sets you apart from my men, but doesn't bring you any closer to me."
"Do it slowly, if you do," she said, and reached for the fabric. She tucked it back beneath her belt, as before, except for a small slash of red peeking out from above the leather. "It'll just mark me as more of a target."
He canted his head. "Are you afraid?"
"Always," she said.
Martin took a step back, considering the length of her. "I hope it isn't crushing. More of a background noise. That's the best we can hope for, at any rate."
Background noise. Yes, that was- the best way to describe it. Constant, unceasing, but something she could live with all the same.
There was a knock at the door. A maid looked into the room, curtseyed quickly, and said, "He'll see you downstairs now." Then she was off like a shot, into the hallways that served the dining room, no doubt connecting it to the kitchen.
Martin gestured to the stairs. "Shall we?"
"She looks surprisingly like a rodent," Sokolov commented.
Callista flushed, and did her best not to move under his dispassionate inspection.
"Very thematic, these days," he continued as he sketched her likeness onto the canvas. "Curnow, Curnow- I met your uncle a few times, you know. I think he mentioned you were his only relative?"
She cleared her throat. "That is correct."
"Plague rats, yes," Sokolov said, stepping back slightly. He looked between the canvas and his subject. "A large family, first, like rats have, but it's all been taken away. Ever heard of the idea of a death curse, Miss Curnow?"
"It came to mind frequently, when I was a child," she said, feeling her jaw tense, her palms grow sweaty in her gloves. "But I've since come to believe it's all simply bad luck. High death tolls within families aren't unusual these days."
"These days, no," Sokolov said, and she waited for him to comment on the timing of the plague, press her on how many of her family had died from it. Instead, he simply shrugged and set down his pencil, reaching instead for his brush. "What are the rations of elixir like at the Abbey? Burrows has been handling distribution, you know."
"They're adequate," Martin said. "We distribute it in the barracks three times a day."
"The City Watch, I understand, are getting four."
Martin frowned. He met Callista's eyes and quirked a brow, and Callista made a mental note to look into the disparity - if it was real.
"And are you taking your doses regularly, High Overseer?"
"I'm hardly out in the streets, and never in contact with the Weepers," Martin said.
"Fool." Sokolov began painting, if the motions of his body and the sound of brush on canvas was any indication. Callista wondered if she was free to move, now, but stayed still.
"Our schedules," Callista offered, "make it difficult to remember to take the elixir regularly. Some days we have a single ration, others the full three. It varies."
"That's the worst thing you could be doing, short of not taking any at all," Sokolov said, scowling at the canvas. "Your defenses vary wildly now, throughout the day. It makes you both vulnerable. And the plague is only spreading. The rats are carrying it. They'll get in everywhere, given time. Good breeders, violent fighters."
"Thank you for the advice," Martin said. Callista watched him touch his jaw- then his throat, taking his pulse.
Sokolov set down his brush, considering the canvas. Then he turned to Martin.
"Let me look at your shoulder, High Overseer."
Martin froze, just for a second. "I don't know what you're talking about," he answered, smoothly, hand dropping from his neck.
"I need a break from painting. You have severely reduced mobility in your shoulder, you had your assistant wearing a sling she didn't need - so as to keep it on hand for you? - and somebody else is going to notice soon, if they haven't already. Given that the last time I saw you, before today, that wasn't the case-"
"It's been taken care of."
His eyes narrowed, and then he shrugged. "Very well."
Callista frowned. Sokolov was a better physician than she was, by far, and her patch-up job on Martin's shoulder surely couldn't be holding well. "It hasn't," she said.
Martin glared at her.
"It hasn't been taken care of, or not well."
"It's a very private matter," Martin gritted out.
"A severe injury can lower the body's ability to keep out the plague," Sokolov said, "but if a man doesn't want assistance, I can't force him."
The impulse to order Martin to take off his jacket was high, despite the knowledge that he wouldn't appreciate her- overbearance. She bit at her lip.
Martin shifted his glower to Sokolov- then shrugged, expression melting away. "I'd appreciate it if you showed Miss Curnow how to attend to my recovery, then."
Sokolov grunted in approval, then set about closing up his paints. Callista circled around the canvas as Sokolov called out a request for water and tools to be brought upstairs to the library they had visited earlier. The sketch was loose and fine, and he'd begun painting not over it, but beside it. Perhaps testing colors? She held up her hand to what looked like a skintone, and found it oddly blue.
She looked away to find Sokolov already climbing the stairs. Martin hesitated at their base. She crossed to him.
"He's unsettlingly perceptive," Martin groused, "for a licentious drunkard."
Callista couldn't help her faint smile.
They climbed the steps, and she closed the door to the library after them. Martin glanced around, checking that their supplies had been brought up, and, seemingly satisfied, stripped off his jacket. She helped him, stepping up behind to ease the fabric from his shoulder.
When his chest was bare, he sat down stiffly, backwards in a chair. "Well?"
There was a clink of glass as Sokolov put down his drink. Callista noted the bottle's hiding place for future reference.
He washed his hands and then picked up a cloth, soaking it first before pressing it against the bandages that were once again blood-stained and stiff. Callista stood nearby, observing every detail as Sokolov eased the bandages up, then wetted a new rag and wiped down the skin.
"Interesting tattoo, High Overseer," Sokolov said, as he washed the damaged patch. He'd broken a few of his stitches sometime during the morning, and the flesh looked red and inflamed again. "It's been a while since I've seen a gwyllgi."
Martin stared straight ahead. "It's a wolfhound," he said, voice clipped.
"Of course," Sokolov said, setting aside the cloth he held and reaching for narrow-nosed scissors. He expertly cut each set of sutures. Martin grimaced at each tug on the thread. "Miss Curnow- your first mistake was to use sewing thread. The wool irritated the skin. I'll give you proper catgut thread for any future attempts. You've also made the stitches too long, too much thread to each one."
"I don't have much education in nursing," she said.
"Clearly." Sokolov set aside the blades and reached for what looked like flat-nosed scissors instead. He used them to grip the bits of suture and tug them out. Martin hissed and grabbed hard at the back of the chair. "Still, you did better than most. The tissue under the skin flap doesn't look like it's infected, so you must've gotten all the particulate out from under it before stitching it down. It's healing, just slowly. I'd advise wearing that sling, High Overseer, until it's completely recovered, and to cease any... vigorous activity."
"I use it when it's convenient," Martin grunted.
Callista held her breath, waiting for Sokolov to ask why Martin was hiding the injury at all, but he didn't. He simply prodded at the wound with various instruments, getting a sense of where the skin had healed down already and where it was still loose. Then he set about disinfecting the area and resuturing the flap.
"This will take several weeks to heal properly," Sokolov said at last. "And your ribs a bit longer."
"There's nothing wrong with my ribs," Martin grumbled.
"Just as there's nothing wrong with your back," Sokolov replied, dryly. "Don't worry, I don't care enough about whatever mess you've found yourself in to tell anybody."
"Then why help?" Callista asked.
Sokolov paused in bandaging the patch of skin, then leaned back in his seat. "... The girl, Emily. I am of a mind that she never be left alone with Burrows. He's a good source of funding, but that's it."
Martin's expression froze, then changed. It didn't soften, but she could read relief - and interest - settling into the lines of his jaw and forehead. Sokolov's intrusion, while not forgiven, was now less of a danger.
Callista, however, kept a close eye on Sokolov long after Martin's bandages were set and his uniform was back in place, even as she stood motionless for another sitting before the canvas.
They returned to Holger just after sunset. The floodlights illuminated the bottoms of the clouds that were gathering overhead, and Callista shivered at a light, chill breeze that came from the river.
Before Martin stepped away from the car, he touched her elbow lightly. "I'd like to talk a bit more, this evening," he said, voice pitched low enough that their waiting escort would have to make obvious efforts to hear. "And I'm sure there's much to attend to inside, if you're up to it."
Callista looked up at the great building. The letter above her heart had grown no heavier, but it was still a noticeable weight. Work might relieve it. But then her thoughts went to the Wall of Light, and its imminent installation across the city, and she frowned.
"I have- things I need to see to, of my own," she said.
"Then I'll stop by your apartment tonight," Martin said, and let his hand drop.
"I'll be out for several hours."
He inclined his head to one side. "Is that a no?"
She considered. "It's a come at midnight, if you come at all," she decided on. "If it's safe at all."
He nodded. "Understood, Miss Curnow."
She thought she saw him wink before he turned and beckoned for his waiting escort. The Overseers folded themselves around him, and she watched him disappear.
Then she climbed back into the car, bound for a spot a mile from the Hound Pits, where she had any number of excuses for her visit.
The pub had blue banners and streamers hanging from every window. Some were older, faded and weather-worn, but some were bright and new, and all flew proudly even in the dim light of the streetlamps. She quickened her pace and reached the door before too many pedestrians got a look at her and her uniform. She'd only realized how much she stood out when two women had crossed the street to avoid her, casting glances at the trident sigil on her belt buckle.
Hopefully Havelock wouldn't mind her. Hopefully he wouldn't turn her away as soon as she opened the door.
She expected noise and light to wash over her as she opened the door, and she braced herself, squaring her shoulders. The latch gave beneath her hand. The door swung open.
Inside the lights were low and the room was mostly empty.
Lydia stood behind the bar, wiping down the taps. She paused, looking over Callista, then jerked her head toward the booth at the far end of the bar. Callista couldn't make out who was sitting there, and she approached slowly.
The only signs of life and conversation in the room were coming from that booth. A few steps closer and she could make out Pendleton's voice, high and strained. Then Havelock's low response. Callista exhaled, relaxing, and took the last few steps with quick authority.
"Hello, gentlemen," she said.
Pendleton glared up at her.
Havelock shifted in his seat, making room for her, but she shook her head at the offer. "I'm just here to check in. I take it you've heard the news, then, given the banners?"
"Glory to the Empire," Havelock agreed with a nod, lifting his glass a half-inch. But he wasn't smiling. "A bit unclear as to who brought her forward-"
"Us," Callista said. "And I apologize for the lack of contact. Things have- moved quickly, these last few days."
"Clearly," he said, drumming his calloused fingers on the table.
"When we discovered where Lady Emily was being kept, we judged it best kept to ourselves. Given what happened with Attano-"
Havelock's bland look turned to a snarl, and he jerked forward slightly- then relented, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Well, it's done, at least."
"Yes," Pendleton said. He looked at her, gaze vague and wandering. His cheeks were flushed with drink. "Yes, it's done. Did you- did you ask me to keep them at Parliament so they could- Miss Curnow-"
"No," she said. "No, though Martin suspects it was not a murder-suicide as Burrows has pronounced it."
"Well, it wasn't. I know them. They would've run. They would've taken the money and run. Unless somebody killed them." He glared at her.
"Martin and I had no reason to kill them," she said, smoothly, clasping her hands behind her back. "Burrows did. You did. I know you're intoxicated, Lord Pendleton, but turn your anger toward the Regent, if anybody."
Pendleton swore and leaned back in his seat.
"Though," she continued, "you may have more access to the Empress than we will, in the future. You are becoming very important, Lord Pendleton."
"Shut up," he slurred.
Havelock waved him down, then pushed himself up from his seat. He gestured for Callista to precede him into the hall, and she did, keeping a careful eye on him.
He shut the door behind him.
"I don't appreciate how thoroughly you're cutting me out of all this, Callista," he said.
"We hardly have a formal alliance. Things have just- been moving so fast." She did her best to look calm, inviting. "But with Emily Kaldwin back on the throne, at least in part, you have an excuse to come before her and petition for your reinstatement. At worst, it's an opportunity for you and Martin to meet safely. At best, you get your command back."
"At best is a fairy story. Burrows won't allow it."
"The Empress is strong-willed, and angry. She has been without power so long that she is asserting herself whenever possible - and Burrows is relenting and allowing her to, to a point. Make yourself less dangerous, and he may not stop her," she said.
Havelock's scowl turned pensive.
"... I heard from my uncle today," she said, voice dropping to just above a whisper. "He is well. And he made it very clear that I should trust you."
"Glad to hear he's alive," Havelock said. "Is he- in the city?"
"No. I heard from him by letter."
Havelock nodded, slowly, then beckoned for her to follow. He took the first two steps to the second floor, then looked back at her when she didn't move. "Come on. I want to check something."
"I shouldn't linger."
"Nobody's here to see you, if you do. The pub is closing at the end of the week. There's no business," he said, shaking his head. He began to climb once more. This time, Callista followed. "I thought the celebration tonight would bring people out, but the plague and the new security measures Burrows has rolled out-"
"I understand," she said.
He grunted in response.
They reached the second floor landing, and he led the way to his room, with its reinforced metal door. As he slipped the key into the lock, she heard something shift inside, then a clicking noise. She glanced to Havelock.
"Keep your eyes forward, Callista," he said. "And don't show any fear."
He pushed the door open, and Blacky stared up at her, snarling.
Callista stared right back, then dragged her gaze up. It was hard to look over the hound, especially when she began to picture how it had torn the Overseer's throat out, but the more she looked straight ahead, the softer the hound's snarling got.
"Good boy," Havelock murmured. "Now sit down."
She heard the floor creak.
"You can look at him now," Havelock said.
She looked.
His front leg was still splinted, with metal pins sticking through his skin and wrapped with bandages, and his fur was coarse and unkempt, but he was alert, focused entirely on her.
"He's taking to the house well, then?" she asked.
"Better than I'd expected," Havelock agreed. "He's mostly trained to kill other hounds, not people."
"He went for the Overseers easily."
"It's the masks. He didn't realize they were people, probably," Havelock said, chuckling. "That and there was already blood on the air. He saw one weak and bleeding, his instincts kicked in. The rest, he was protecting me, I think. And you. Hold out your hand to him."
"Thank you, no."
"He doesn't snap unless you try to touch his injury, or his stomach. Go ahead."
She inspected the hound, then held out her left hand. It shook slightly.
The hound stretched its long neck, and sniffed delicately at her glove.
Then it settled down onto the ground, looking bored.
"See, gentle as a kitten," Havelock said. "But he costs a lot to feed, and his medicines aren't cheap, either. I'm already figuring when I'll have to put down the ones still capable of fighting, but for him- he can't earn his keep."
"I see."
Havelock stepped over the hound and went to his desk, settling down in his chair. He sat back, watching her. "Your uncle- does he know what you're doing these days?"
"No. Actually, he warned me against trusting Martin at all."
Havelock nodded, slowly. "Just like him," he said. "You should take Blacky with you."
She looked back down at the hound. "I'm- not sure that's entirely wise. He's still a fighter. The Overseer hounds are trained from birth and are- very different from him."
"I'm not saying make him an Overseer hound. I'm saying you take him."
"I wouldn't know how to handle him."
"You put a heavy leash on him, and a harness, and you feed him and sit with him while he sleeps. That's about the sum of it. He knows orders to sit, to stay, to attack, and to let go. Should be all you need."
She shook her head. "I really can't-"
"If Pendleton came up here and offered Blacky his hand, he'd get a growl and a warning snap. I've seen it myself. Same with Lydia, and the Cecelia girl she's got helping her. But with you, he's sleeping at your feet already. Something about jumping to your protection, even though he didn't know what he was doing, seems to have put you in a different category."
"And how do you suggest I control him around Martin? The other Overseers? Burrows?" she asked.
Havelock smiled. "Maybe you don't."
Callista looked back down at the hound. It was a shame, certainly, for the creature to be put down after it had saved her life, but she didn't trust the beast. She'd never trusted animals, and the hound's sharp teeth and long, pointed muzzle only meant danger to her.
"Blacky," Havelock said. The hound lifted his head, then climbed to his feet, favoring his broken leg. "Come here."
Callista watched as he turned and limped over to Havelock's desk, then paused and glanced over his shoulder at her. His small eyes glittered. His ears pricked forward, and his powerful shoulders seemed to coil and roll. He sat down at Havelock's feet, facing her. He pawed the ground, restlessly.
She took a step closer, and he settled back onto his belly.
"You try. See how he listens," Havelock said.
"He needs his rest," she said, shaking her head. She thought of Martin's back, his stitches breaking - and he didn't have metal poking through his skin.
"He's used to it. Try."
Callista looked between the two. She thought back to her uncle's letter. He'd said to trust Havelock, and Havelock, though ambitious and grasping for control, seemed to be trustworthy. If he thought the hound could protect her...
"Blacky," she said.
The hound lifted his head and looked at her, expectantly.
"Come here," she said, and pointed to the ground by her feet.
He rose with the same laborious care as before, and limped to her.
"Sit."
He sat at her feet.
She considered him. Carefully, she reached out her hand. He sniffed it only once, as if it were just a formality. Holding her breath, she settled it on top of his head.
He pressed up into her touch.
"And there we go," Havelock said. "Take him home with you."
"I'm not sure I'm ready to be trapped with him in a railcar," she said. "Or to walk him through the streets." Besides, Martin would likely be by in a few hours, and she didn't want to know what would happen if Blacky saw Martin wielding a riding crop. "... Bring him by tomorrow, on your way to petition. Early in the morning."
Havelock nodded. "You're in your uncle's place near Clavering now?"
"Yes."
"I have the exact address written down somewhere."
She rubbed behind the hound's ears, gently. "What does he need? For food?"
"As much raw meat as you can get him, and whatever table scraps you've got left over," he said. "Or whatever your Abbey kennels have. And he'll want some bedding, some scraps of fabric or something. He gets protective of what's his, so he'll want some space of his own, but I'm sure you've got enough rooms for that."
"I do, yes."
Callista sat gazing at the mantlepiece, imagining the spread of urns that should have adorned it. Behind her, the clock ticked down the minutes to midnight. Her house was empty, and she wasn't sure how much she liked it that way.
In the car, it had been a deep comfort to be alone, with its close quarters and its dim light. She'd sped, protected, through the streets. Now the apartment seemed too big by comparison, and she felt strange as her presence expanded into the new space. The day had been so busy, so tense, that once again she'd condensed herself to a few small, powerful thoughts.
She'd rescued the child empress; she'd looked at the mangled bodies of two wealthy lords; she'd had her portrait painted by the Royal Physician; she'd heard from her uncle. She let her head drop into her hands, and took several slow, deep breaths.
She'd turn Martin away, if he arrived. She needed the space. She needed to breathe.
In twelve hours, there'd be a hound sleeping in her apartment and following at her heels, and in sixteen she'd help arrange a meeting between Martin and Havelock at last. How much faster could things begin to spin? Dunwall seemed to contract in on her, narrowing to the corridor between the Regent and the Abbey and the pub, and there didn't seem to be room for her anymore. There would be no lazy afternoons with a book and warm sunlight filtering in through hazy clouds, diffusing over her small apartment floor. There would be no more fretting over simple, small things like how to avoid heavy foot traffic on her way to the shops.
She massaged at her cheeks and temples, feeling the hard bone beneath her features as if for the first time. Had they sharpened? Had they become steel? Her skin felt tight and unfamiliar, and when she thought back to the pub, to parliament, to the brothel, she felt sharp, taut, and alert. Two months ago, she could have never... she would never have been strong enough to...
There was a knock at the door. She sank deeper into the couch, letting out another deep, shuddering breath.
This time last night, she'd surrendered. Was that the only way she could carve out a little space to be not this creature of blood and politics and wickedness? By forgetting herself entirely?
Martin knocked again. It was before midnight, but she was too exhausted to consider who else it could be. She dragged herself from her seat, grimacing as her corset pressed too firmly against her back.
When she opened the door, he smiled at her.
It was a simple thing, but her resolve to send him away crumbled. Instead, she stepped back and motioned him inside. He shut the door behind him.
He wasn't wearing his uniform. His arm was in its sling, and he wore a dark, nondescript jacket over both shoulders to disguise it. It made him look confident and slightly rakish. He shrugged the jacket off and hung it up beside the door, then passed her, making his way over to the sitting room.
"You're early," she said.
"So are you." He sat down in her space, propping one leg up on the table in front of him. He was wearing nice stockings.
She was still in her uniform, rumpled and worn.
I should tell him to leave. But after what had happened the night before, and now that they were alone, unwatched, and without immediate duties, she felt drawn to him. Her skin prickled as if the air was charged with lightning.
She watched as he reached into his sling and pulled out a small, long wooden box that he'd had settled against his forearm.
"Can you get me a dish of water?" he asked, settling the box on his thigh.
She eyed it a moment, then nodded and retreated to the kitchen.
Returning a moment later with a shallow bowl, she found Martin with the lid of the box open, his fingers trailing over its contents. When she came close enough to set the bowl on the table, she could see that inside were a few small pots of paint.
"It's cheap stuff," he said, "but it will do well enough. Come here, sit down."
She lifted a brow, but did as he asked.
He set the box to his other side, along with a small brush, and reached for her hand. He was gentle as he tugged the glove from her fingers.
"It has been," he said, "a very long day."
"It has," she said. "I'm barely on my feet, to be honest."
"You won't need to be," he said, with a quick grin. It faded as his fingers explored her knuckles and the tendons along the back of her hand.
"What are the paints for?"
"Fun," he said. "I had the idea when Sokolov was painting your portrait." He set her hand down on his knee, spreading it flat. She held it in place as he reached for box and brush, and watched as he dipped the brush into a black ink. "Something neither of us has to think too much about, and something that won't leave you too sore to sit in the morning."
"That's- thoughtful," she said, voice catching faintly.
He brought the tip of the brush down between the tendons of her index and middle finger, and traced a light, thin line to where her fingers split. The paint was cool and the touch made her twitch. Martin's lips curled.
As she watched, he painted the Abbey's trident on her hand. He was no great artist, and his lines jumped and shook, especially when the brush tickled and she couldn't resist the urge to pull away, but it was recognizable and stark against her pale skin.
He bent down, blowing over the ink to dry it. Her fingers spasmed.
"Well?" he asked.
"It's- very strange," she said. "But nice."
Martin pushed up her sleeve another inch, and turned her hand over. But as he started a line up the inside of her wrist, as the brush touched her pulse, her hand balled into a fist and chest spasmed. Her face tightened. Before he could lift his head to ask what was wrong, she could feel tears on her cheeks, unbidden and unwanted, uncontrollable.
By the time he'd put the brush aside, she was sobbing.
She couldn't see through her tears when Martin folded his good arm around her, but she let him tuck her against his side. She pressed her cheek against his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric of it. Whatever walls she'd imagined, whatever steel in her spine keeping her strong, faded to nothing, and she really was just a young woman who didn't have enough room for herself. She hiccupped and shook, and Martin patted her back, then stroked her hair.
"How do you do it?" she gasped, drawing her knees up onto the couch, up to her chest. Her corset creaked and strained. "How do you- every day-"
"Practice," he murmured against the crown of her head. "And the certainty that this is the best option I have. Obsession, to have the best."
She had none of those.
"Come here," he said, and pushed the both of them up off the couch. His arm around her supported most of her weight, and she clung to him, barely hearing his grunt of pain as she strained his injuries. She heard the click of the paint box closing, and a rustle as he shrugged out of his sling. He must have scooped up the box; she felt him stoop for just a moment before he moved her towards her bedroom.
He sat her on the edge of the mattress, and knelt before her. She remained hunched against the onslaught of tears and mindless exhaustion and fear, the reverberations of the week's events loud inside her skull. Martin worked quickly, removing her shoes, stretching up to push her jacket from her shoulders. She barely noticed as he got her out of her corset, except suddenly she could gasp deeper, could hunch down further. She squirmed as he helped her out of her trousers, then kicked at him, gently, like a frustrated, overwhelmed child. He let her, though his hands skimmed along her ankles and guided her feet away from his bad side.
Standing, he wrapped his good arm around her again and eased her back onto the bed. He helped her down to the mattress, and she rolled onto her stomach, tangling her hands in the sheets. She pressed her cheek to the mattress and cried into it, letting its bulk muffle her and soak up her tears.
Martin's broad hand was pressed against her shoulders, and he rubbed between them, gently. She wondered how awkward this must be, how horrible for him, and the ferocity of her tears was renewed. He never left her side, though, and after several minutes, he bent down to press his lips to the back of her neck.
"You did so much for me today," he murmured. "I asked so much. And whatever I ask for, you give me."
I don't know how much more I have, she thought, weakly, and tried to burrow further into the bed.
His hand moved along her spine in soothing patterns. "I need to learn to ask for less," he continued, "or I won't have a chance of keeping you, will I?"
She replied with a confused, tired moan.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'm here."
His hand left her back, though, and her muscles tightened in anticipation. She listened for the creak of the floorboards, or the slam of a door.
Instead, there was a faint click, followed seconds later by a cool, fluid pass of a brush along her upper arm. He pressed harder than he had on her hand, and so the brush didn't tickle at all. It calmed her. It didn't have the undeniability of a crop to her backside, but it was gentle and insistent, and she could latch onto it. She focused on each pass of the brush as he drew long lines, then went back along it with small curves.
Her tears began to slow, and she clutched less tightly at the sheets.
"Tomorrow morning," he said, "I think you should stay here, and rest. I'll take a look at our schedule and see what you can work on in the afternoon that's- light. Easy. Maybe research, something you can do alone."
Again, she could only reply with a wordless sound - but the thought of a morning off was attractive, even knowing there would be a Hound brought to her.
"There are preparations to be made for the celebration marking the return of the heir, but luckily, very few of those fall to us. I'll need a speech, but I can write that myself." His brush meandered up her arm again, and he bent down, kissing at the back of her neck. "The next few days or weeks will likely be quiet ones, unless we make them otherwise. Today was the apex, today was the day things came closest to falling apart, but there will be many more days to follow where we can either embrace the room we're given to breathe, or stamp our feet in impotent impatience. I want you to do the former."
She shifted, slowly, remembering what it was to have control over her body. Tears still stung in her eyes, but they were manageable. If she opened her eyes, she could see - it was only faintly blurry. "There's still so much to learn," she murmured.
"You're a fast study. Nobody can deny that," he said. "And you learn well in the crucible. Can I trust you to learn just as well when you're not against the iron?"
"I don't know."
The brush passed between her shoulder blades, then onto her other arm, skipping over the strap of her undershirt. He pulled away only to dip it again in pigment. "Well, I believe that you can, Miss Curnow," he murmured. His brush traced curling paths down to her elbow, her wrist, and finally in the cup of her palm. She shivered.
"Tomorrow," she said, turning her head so that she could see him. "Tomorrow, Havelock is going to go before Emily, if she's holding court, and petition to have his command restored. He'd like to see you as well."
"Of course he would."
She took a deep breath, brow furrowing with the effort to keep her voice half-level. "He's getting restless, and frustrated. Pendleton is distraught over his brothers' deaths, and knows that it was staged. Havelock resents being kept in the dark about our plans."
"Understandably. Well, I'll speak with him if he has a valid reason to show up at the Abbey. Easier than getting to his part of town unnoticed."
She nodded.
"That's where you went tonight, then?"
She nodded again. Martin pulled the brush away, then set it inside the case and closed the lid safely. He moved, settling his back against the headboard, sitting just beside her. He reached down and touched one of her hands. "After such a busy day, too?"
"After the letter from Geoff," she said. "They knew each other. I wanted... I don't know."
"Understanding that I can't give," he said, then shrugged his good shoulder. "I get it."
"But it ended up being just- more work. I had to be poised. Unflappable. Your agent. I couldn't be- scared, or weak."
Martin nodded, hand shifting to stroke her hair again.
Here, she could be scared and weak. She sighed, closing her eyes and relaxing.
"He's sending over one of his fighting dogs," she murmured. "In the morning. The hound's injured, and apparently placid."
Martin hummed. "I'm not sure I support that. I already offered you a better-trained one from the kennels, didn't I?"
"You did," she said. "But this one has already saved my life once. He'll kill Overseers just as easily as he'll kill thugs."
"That's dangerous," he murmured.
"I don't trust anybody," she said. "Not even your men."
She didn't open her eyes, but she could feel his hand tensing atop her head. Then it relaxed.
"I'll help train it up, then," Martin said. "The two of us alone will. You said it's injured?"
"Front leg was shot. It's in pins and bandages."
"And how does it act around you?"
"Obedient. It watches me, and will sit at my feet, will lie down when I'm close."
His fingers traced the shell of his ear. "Are you afraid of it?"
"Of course. I've never worked with beasts before."
He chuckled. "I could make several jokes to the contrary." He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I've never been one of the kennelmasters, but I know their work well enough. You'll keep him here?"
"In one of the spare rooms, yes."
"I'll get bedding for him, then. A cage, in case you need it. Food, and the tools the kennels use."
"It will raise suspicion," she said.
"Not if I do it right. Don't worry," he said, bending down to kiss her scalp again. She opened her eyes at that, and looked up at him.
He gazed back.
She opened her mouth to ask how he could be so caring, so gentle, when two days before he'd been afraid to get close, but she could see the answer in the set of his jaw already. He wanted her at his side, to help him. She was too valuable to lose. She was fragile, and so he was shoring her up in the only way that would work. Any care or concern he had for her was secondary to his goals.
That was comforting, that little bit of distance.
"Miss Curnow," he said, lightly, though his gaze was intent. "Are we still bound by our promise not to kiss?"
She couldn't imagine how she looked, covered in paint, half-naked, her hair frazzled and doing its best to escape from its bun, her face red and puffy, eyes rimmed with dark circles. "I don't know," she managed.
"Do you want to be?" he asked, canting his head. His hand moved to her chin, tilted it up. She shifted, scrambled, got an arm under herself and pushed herself up.
"Not really," she said.
He leaned in and kissed her.
It was gentle, but far from chaste, his tongue sliding along her lower lip. She shivered. Then he pulled away, looking at her painted limbs. "You should bathe, before sleep," he said, "or you'll stain your bedding."
Your fault, she thought, but was too tired and unsteady to say. Instead, she got herself upright, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
"Thank you," she managed as she stood. Her entire body felt heavy as lead, and she made her way, slowly, towards the washroom. "For- this. I know it's hardly your nature."
"You would be surprised," he said, standing and coming to her side. He put his hand against the small of her back. "My nature is responsive to the environment I find myself in."
"Still, there must be some limits," she said, with a quick, thin smile. "I doubt you'd adapt well to living in a small house by the coast. Well-respected but of no consequence, living your days by working the fields or your hands, taking pleasure in the salt air."
The words left her throat, and then she frowned, wondering where the idea had come from. Her childhood, obviously, but why now? She'd never wanted that life for herself. She still didn't.
"Would you?" he answered.
"... Maybe," she said. Her goals, after all, had a way of changing.
They parted in the living room, when she assured him she was still capable of bathing herself. He'd chuckled and smirked, and she'd watched him shrug into his jacket with a tired satisfaction. Once the door closed, she went to the washroom and reached for the tap.
The Abbey trident stared up at her from the back of her hand, emblazoned starkly against her pale skin.
She'd heard, once, that the Outsider marked his chosen few with his strange, heretical sigil. She'd always supposed it was somewhere hidden - a thigh, the small of the back, beneath the breast.
Of course, Teague Martin would have the audacity to place his version of the mark where it couldn't be ignored.
She washed it away last.