Chapter 22
Martin was alone and dozing when she entered his office and crossed the space to his desk in five quick strides, the door shut tight behind her. He was tipped back in his chair slightly, one boot propped on his desk, hands folded over his belly. Callista dropped the bag containing the witch's hand on the desk.
He didn't flinch.
He was vulnerable, laid out before her like a feast day delicacy, and all it would have taken to kill him was to pick up the letter opener on his desk and step forward, drive it right where she had attempted to the night before-
But the impulse wasn't there.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Billie had done her a great service. She had to make the most of it.
"Martin."
His eyes remained closed, but he quirked an eyebrow.
Ah. He'd been awake the whole time. It certainly explained why his door had been unlocked. Was he testing her? Seeing if he could still trust his safety to her?
"The witch is dead," she said. "And Billie is no longer a threat. Neither am I."
His chair legs thudded against the carpeted floor, and he opened his eyes, brow furrowing. "You've been busy."
"Hardly," she said, gesturing to the bag. "I had a visitor. She's still crippled, but she's been retained by the Empress. For now we're moving on parallel tracks. She solved the mystery of Delilah Copperspoon before I could, and she's taken care of the problem."
Martin regarded her coolly for a moment, then reached for the bag and tugged it open. His nose wrinkled, and he grasped the bag from the outside as he wiggled its contents into view. The Outsider's mark seemed starker still now, with the skin fully grey and strangely drawn.
"Her plot was to paint the Empress, then use that portrait to control her. She would have been able to imitate the girl's signature perfectly. She had done this before; she was likely in control of Arnold Timsh when his demeanor shifted and he granted me my uncle's apartment."
She tried not to think of Geoff, still hounded in the square below. She had returned to Holger by car; it had saved her the sight of him.
"She was also in control of me when I attempted to stab you," she added, voice softening. She kept her gaze fixed on the hand.
Martin said nothing.
"The Empress has decided," she said, approaching and lowering her voice further still, "not to have the Regent killed. She would like us to take a more subtle approach. I believe that with this proof that the painter he hired was a witch-"
"We still can't prove he knew."
"Yesterday, when I spoke with Sokolov at the Academy, he said that Burrows knew her from a young age, and would never have hired her unless he wanted to utilize her heretical abilities."
"Difficult to prove, Callista." He looked up at her, expression softening. "I know that this is a difficult time for you. But while our assassin has provided us with relief from another threat, I don't see how-"
"We use Campbell's journal. We show prior history of the Regent hiring various thugs - heretics - to clear the way for him." She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the table. "It's time, Martin. We have enough."
"He'll discredit us when we speak up," Martin said. "What do we do, get his propaganda officer to make this announcement? No, we need to catch him in the act."
"Then we catch him," Callista said.
Martin canted his head.
She swallowed, hands beginning to tremble. She pressed them harder against the wood as her thoughts began to race. "We need access to his ledgers, first off. Even the official ones will be enough - our contacts there must be able to get access. Then we have the journal. Burrows has spent the last months desperate to find out what you know. We call him here, and present ourselves as allies. You say you just discovered the journal."
"He'll deny it," Martin said, shaking his head.
"How can he? And he's desperate for allies, with the Empress pulling away. Did you see him on the platform today? And how was he after I left? For that matter," she paused, frowning, "where have they all gone?"
"To the Tower. I demured. And he was... attentive, I would say," Martin said, glancing away. "But even if he confesses to us..."
"Your old office," Callista said, slamming one of her hands down against the wood in emphasis and a sudden surge of triumph. "The hole, that I listened through that first night. If we set up an audiograph recorder in the room, it will work. We take that to the propaganda officer. It's perfect - from that hole, your voice will be muffled, since your back will be to it. His will be clear."
"And what if he doesn't trust us enough to do all the talking?"
"Then you offer him something to make him trust you," she said. "He doesn't trust either of us. My uncle is the one in the square. Tell him- tell him whatever you think he needs to hear about me, to make him believe this isn't a ploy on your part. Discredit me, if you have to. Tell him that I'm an idealistic fool, and that my desperate pleas have made you question your involvement with me, and made you- I don't know. Perhaps it caused you to find, or to finally decode, the journal. And to seek a better ally than a grasping governess."
"And if he asks about how we located the Empress?"
"Good, solid detective work," she said. "Suspicions. No proof, just us making a stab in the dark. Martin, this will work."
He pursed his lips, then nodded, slowly. "It might. If it doesn't, though-"
"If it doesn't, I'm dead or imprisoned, and you have a new bedfellow. I'm willing to take the risk. Are you?"
Martin sat forward. "Send for Windham, then get set up in that side room. I'll have him here by morning."
Callista spent the entire night pacing. Her heart wouldn't still, and she found herself again and again lingering by windows, looking out on the floodlit square where her uncle hung alternately limp and raging in the stocks. Windham had been gone since just before nightfall, but he'd confessed, hesitantly, that her uncle had sustained several secondary wounds from items hurled by the crowd. There was, he'd assured her, the benefit that the curfew would stop the abuse, and that the floodlights would keep what rats were present at Holger away from him. It would be a reprieve.
But that didn't stop the abuse from the Overseers. She saw what she thought was one Overseer pissing on her uncle's bowed back. She turned away from the window, and resumed her pacing.
By morning, Windham still hadn't returned. Word came that Burrows would arrive shortly before noon. The crowds formed again, though smaller than the day before, and Callista busied herself in the side room, going into the office once or twice to test the recording power of the audiograph machine. Meanwhile, upstairs in Martin's usual office, Martin broke out a window, claimed an accident, and made a show of repairing down to his prior office. Nothing seemed amiss.
Just before noon, the railcar from the Tower rolled up. Martin met Burrows in the main square. Callista watched from a window, then retreated back to the side room.
It was clearer now; much of the discarded furniture had been removed or donated to her apartment. She didn't have to crouch or contort herself. But the room was still small and dark, and the only light came from below the door and from the hole.
The minutes dragged by. She began to worry that Burrows had objected to the change in location, that his paranoia had gripped him too tightly for their plan to work. But then she heard the door open, and Martin's voice.
"-terribly sorry about the office, but I do think you'll appreciate the poetic appropriateness in just a minute."
"Hmph," Burrows replied. "You had better get that assistant of yours under control. The rains are coming and I hear they'll be horrible this year. With that hole she put in your window, you're looking at far too much property damage."
Callista paused, simultaneously amused and pricked by Martin's explanation of the broken window, then reached forward, initiating the audiograph's recording. Its click was muffled by the red sash she usually wore, now wrapped around the machine. She removed it as the machine quieted.
In the office, the door closed again.
"So what's so important? You rarely invite me by twice in a week, let alone two days."
"We received an anonymous delivery yesterday night that I think will interest you."
Burrows huffed again. "Well, go on."
"It was the hand of a woman, marked with the Outsider's sigil."
Burrows didn't respond at first, and she could barely make out the rustle of his clothing as he shifted his weight. "... Congratulations are in order, then? Two marked individuals - my understanding is that those are quite rare?"
"Very rare, yes. High Overseers pass their entire terms of office never encountering one, let alone killing them. I think this is a very auspicious sign. The hand was accompanied by a note, however; that is what looks to be of interest to you."
"A note?"
"Yes. The anonymous vigilante claimed that the hand belonged to a painter named Delilah Copperspoon. We had Sokolov by to confirm that the pigments we found beneath her nails were consistent with an artist. He was able to confirm that, and mentioned that he'd known a Delilah Copperspoon once. The strangest thing, however, was that my assistant informed me that the Empress recently met with her to have her portrait painted."
Again, Burrows was silent.
"These heretics are insidious, Lord Regent. The Royal Physician also mentioned you would have known Copperspoon as well, as she was a playmate of young Jessamine."
"I did. She was a baker's girl back in Euhorn's day. Then she was Sokolov's apprentice, yes. I vaguely remember that."
"It would be entirely understandable," Martin continued, "for you to have hired her on in an attempt to ease the Empress's transition back to a stable life. Her mother's friend, after all, should be a source of comfort."
"You are very perceptive, High Overseer," Burrows said, voice chilled. "Thank your vigilante for me; I had no idea she would have been a threat. Arnold Timsh suggested her when the Empress expressed a distaste for the Royal Physician. I remembered her name, and Arnold assured me she was safe."
"Of course. Really, the whole issue with the painter is of secondary importance, though."
"Is it, now?"
"Yes." Martin cleared his throat. "As you... may have noticed, my assistant is currently quite unstable. Her speech yesterday was admirable, and she hasn't done anything foolish aside from throwing that paperweight through my window, but the incident has made me pause for thought. I remember your cautions when you first met her."
"Mm."
"She has, of course, been quite helpful. She was the one, for instance, to suggest I make a closer search of Campbell's private room. Where I found this."
She heard the soft thud of the journal being dropped onto the desk.
"... And what is that?" Burrows asked.
"A journal, kept in code. It details many things - many useful things - but the greatest point of interest for me is the recordkeeping of how much he owed you for the hiring of one Daud. When we captured his associate, the assassin known as Billie Lurk, she mentioned that you had hired Daud to kill the late Empress, but I assumed it was a misleading falsehood. After all, the plot seemed sloppy. What would have happened, for instance, if Attano had returned a few days later? You would have had no scapegoat. But then this journal confirmed all of it. It also confirmed that-"
"Stop," Burrows hissed. "I know what's in there. Campbell was a fool."
"Do you deny any of it?"
"What's your purpose? And this Billie Lurk- I don't recall any announcements about her?"
Martin's chair creaked; Callista imagined him leaning back. Her breath and heart were knotted in her throat.
"We decided it was a private Abbey matter. We hardly needed panic in the streets," Martin provided, smoothly. "At any rate, I have since read this notebook cover to cover. Campbell was a foolish, greedy man. I am not. I am also not an idealist. This city clearly needs firm governance, not the whims of a child. It's imperative that you remain as Regent, isn't it?"
"Exactly," Burrows growled.
"I would support you," Martin said. "Except that your plotting has revealed that you are a fool. Attano-"
"Attano was a happy accident," Burrows snapped. "Originally, the plan was to set up Jessamine's death as a plot by her poor, pathetic supporters, all the impoverished fools who beg for handouts and glut our streets. Her popularity would have been her downfall, as was right. It was a pity she had to die - she was a decent ruler, as things go - but she was not firm enough, and she indulged the people too much. I had hoped bringing the plague would open her eyes and show her that the city was better off without the ever-increasing masses of the unclean, but instead it softened her still further."
"The plague?"
"Is out of hand, true, but it is only because of how foolish the unthinking herds are. We have told them to remain in their homes; they don't listen. We have set up checkpoints to control their movements, so that only specific neighborhoods die out; they sneak through the sewers like rats! They carry it with them wherever they go, and the rats come with them."
Callista covered her mouth, eyes wide. She thought back to her apartment. Had its infection been intentional, or spillover?
"Sokolov's latest projections show that we'll lose nearly half the populace before the plague begins to burn out, and that we'll lose more skilled workers before that. Unfortunate, yes, but we will at least start clean, once the bodies are burned."
They didn't need the connection to Delilah. They didn't need proof that he'd murdered Jessamine, though now they had it well in hand.
This was worse.
This would destroy him.
"I have done what was necessary. Do you understand, High Overseer?"
"I do," Martin said, hiding any horror he must have been feeling. "And I must agree, where you began from was elegant. But you made a crucial error, one that I learned to avoid the hard way."
"And that is?"
"You assumed you would succeed. Never assume success. It only leads you to forget to make contingency plans. You were lucky that Curnow killed Campbell - it gave you a stronger explanation for Attano's actions. A plot born on the waves. Without Curnow's actions, however, you would have been vulnerable."
"Without Curnow's actions, I would have had no new elements, High Overseer," Burrows snarled.
Distantly, Callista heard a knock. She frowned. Windham, back with the ledgers? No, no- she began to rise. She should have given word to stop him-
The door opened.
"Lydia?" Burrows said, clearly confused.
"High Overseer," she said, "a little birdie told me you were looking for the ledgers. I took the liberty of bringing both sets of our books over. Hopefully this will convince you of the wisdom of considering my funding?"
Callista pressed herself to the wall, peering desperately through the crack. She half expected to see Lydia Boyle with gun in hand, aimed at Martin's head, here to rescue her lover's status.
But instead, she held two heavy books. Burrows had gone white. Martin held out his hand and received them.
"My sister and I agreed," Lydia continued, "that it was best that you be apprised of everything. And oh, Hiram- the painter you hired, the one who promised to help us control the girl- she hasn't turned up today. What's her name- Copperspoon?"
Burrows stayed very still. Martin was flipping through the ledgers. Callista pulled back, hurriedly, afraid of blocking the flow of sound.
"Ah, there's the payment to Daud. That's a hefty sum, to be sure. And there's the payments to the Lords Pendleton for keeping the Empress at the Cat. And there's the payment to Copperspoon. How many meetings is this for?"
"She didn't charge for the introductory meeting."
"Be silent, Lydia," Burrows said.
"What? I was listening outside the door, Hiram."
She could imagine Martin's pleased smile. Her own matched it. She was grinning. The audiograph player clicked faintly, having recorded its full length, but she didn't care.
"I know he's in with us now."
It was enough.
Callista pulled the audiograph card from the machine and retied her sash about her waist, then tucked the card inside of it, protectively. She rose, knees creaking, and carefully opened the door to the hall. Nobody was about. She moved quickly through the halls, pausing only once at a window to look out on Geoff.
Soon. Just give it a few minutes.
Martin would keep them busy for a while longer, she was sure. Their plan at this point was murky, but given how direct Burrows and Boyle had been, she assumed he knew as well as she did that they could strike now, easily, while the Abbey could take them into custody. She descended the stairs to the railcar line, and clambered in.
Fifteen minutes later, Burrows' confession was blaring from every loudspeaker in the city.
By the time she returned to Holger, he was already in chains.
"Geoff Curnow is not, as been believed up until now, an enemy of the state, nor the Abbey." Martin's voice boomed across the space. "He reacted in the manner of a good citizen; we now have proof that Hiram Burrows and Thaddeus Campbell conspired to kill the late Empress, and to have her child stolen. We believe that the original intent, prior to our intervention, was for the former Regent to produce the Empress when it best suited him; the late brothers Pendleton were certainly holding her, but he knew at all times where she was. And are those the actions of a man you would call Regent?
"Thaddeus Campbell knew of all of this, but there can be no argument that he concealed it for the sake of Dunwall or the sake of our unending battle against the forces of the Outsider. No, instead he allowed heresy - the Regent's conspiring with individuals whom we know to have born the Outsider's mark.
"Therefore, let it be known that it is the position of the High Overseer that while Geoff Curnow did commit murder, he did it in the service of the Abbey and the city. He will therefore be removed from the square and allowed to rest in one of the holding cells, where he will remain unmolested until I hear from the High Oracle. With her approval, he will be rehabilitated as a guest of the Abbey. Any objections to this plan will be seen as an act of treason, siding with the corrupt government that has now been rightfully displaced.
"Is that clear, Brothers?"
"Aye," came the chorus of replies. Some were enthusiastic. Most sounded confused. A few were grudging.
But it was done. Callista felt a weight lift off of her, the mass of the sea threatening to drown her pulling away with the tide. She took a deep breath.
He would never speak again, but he would live.
"I leave Brother Windham and Brother Hume in charge of moving Geoff Curnow. Render all assistance to keep back the crowds outside. Understood?"
"Aye!"
Martin surveyed the room slowly, then nodded, and stepped down from the lectern. Hume and Windham pushed out of the crowd, taking up spots on the raised platform, quickly setting to work dividing the assembled men.
Callista met Martin just by the doorway to the eastern stairwell. She struggled to keep down her smile, and gave up when he grinned at her.
"A fine day's work, Miss Curnow," he murmured, winking as he pushed open the door.
She followed him upstairs in a giddy haze. A part of her longed to rush down and observe her uncle being unshackled. She dreamed of gathering him up into her arms, apologizing, and him thanking her with tears of relief. He hadn't thought she was strong enough to fight the corruption of Dunwall, but she had - for him, and for herself. The world was salvageable. She had proven it.
But she knew she would fall to pieces if she went to him now, and it would make his pardoning more suspect, more divisive. As it was, it would still take weeks of debating before he was released, and months more before the city accepted him and it was safe for him to go about at night. Then there was the physical and emotional rehabilitation he would face, learning to communicate without speech, adjusting to life not on the run, ceasing to dream of the day and night he'd spent out in the stocks.
Martin turned off down the hall towards his office, and she followed reflexively.
He closed the door behind them, and went to pour them both glasses of whiskey. He handed one of the fine glasses to her, and raised his own in her direction. "To success and triumph, all at your hands, my dear Miss Curnow."
A breathy, shaky laugh escaped her and she raised her glass in turn. "I- could hardly have done it without you."
"Do you forgive me, then?" His smile faded. "For allowing this to happen?" His hand drifted to his sternum, then to the soft spot just below it where she'd nearly run him through.
She flushed, turning away from him. "... I do. It's possible that I wasn't in my right mind then. The witch-"
"It doesn't matter," he said, and downed half his glass. She jerked around as she heard the clink of glass on his desk. He'd set his glass down, and now regarded her with something that looked a lot like-
Pride.
She drank from her own glass. The whiskey had a sweet note, and its burn was measured and pleasant. She closed her eyes and let the liquid roll around her tongue. Yes, this was success. This was her success.
Even now, Geoff was being escorted inside. Perhaps he was afraid - it was possible his escorts refused to tell him what was going on. The thought soured slightly inside of her, and she swallowed her whiskey down, opening her eyes.
Martin was still watching her, though his expression had softened somewhat.
"Thank you," he said.
"For?"
"Everything. Without you, I wouldn't have deciphered Campbell's code - at least not so quickly. We wouldn't have retrieved the Empress and ingratiated ourselves with her. I would have died twice over. I may never have become High Overseer, even. It seems, Miss Curnow, that I can find the whole of my success in you."
He approached, slowly. There was a brief moment of fear, when she realized that Martin, in a different world, might have resented her for that dependency, and that he might see her now as more of a threat than a boon - but his expression darkened with arousal as he approached, not violence.
"Never leave me, Miss Curnow," he murmured, stopping just inches away. His breath ghosted over her lips and the tip of her nose. "I'm not eager to see what I would become without you."
"I have no intentions of going anywhere," she replied. Her lips fitted against his easily, and he groaned as she pressed herself against him. His hands fell to her hips.
He pulled back a fraction of an inch. "Get on your knees, Miss Curnow," he breathed.
A small laugh escaped her. "Not this time, High Overseer," she whispered, and kissed him soundly once more.
Martin laughed too as she slipped her tongue between his lips, and ran her hands between their bodies so that she could unbuckle his harness. His hands danced in turn over the nip of her waist, then fell to the fasteners on her breeches, which he made quick work of, fingers deft and focused. His mouth left hers, branding a path down the side of her throat until he couldn't maneuver past the stiff fabric of her collar. He nipped at the jump of her pulse just above the starched edge, and she let her head fall back, eyes closing, breath hissing out between her teeth.
Her fingers loosened the buckle on his harness, and she shoved the stiff leather out of the way, reaching next for the clasps along his jacket.
"What am I going to do with you?" he asked as he shoved down the fabric of her breeches, then reached up to undo the first few clasps of her jacket. "Not taking orders, changing the whole fabric of society-"
"There will be time for corrections in the future," she responded around a gasp as he bared her collarbones and began nibbling at the hollow between them. "I'm sure of it."
"Is that a promise?" he asked, and though his tone kept its usual levity, there was just the slightest hint of uncertainty, of fear.
"I promise," she said, as firmly as she could. Her fingers worked the last of the clasps open and she pushed his jacket open to reveal his undershirt, and the line of his throat and shoulder. He lifted his head with a quirked brow.
She glanced around the room. The shutters were open. The door was closed but unlocked.
She found she didn't care.
"Your trousers are going to get in the way," he said, eyes narrowing with interest. "And I might muss your uniform, you know."
"I don't care," she said, and took his hand, tugging him towards his desk. He barked a laugh, coming along easily, then bearing her back against the wood. Her rear bit into the edge of it, and she reached behind her, shoving pages out of the way as Martin hooked his arms around her thighs and pushed her onto her back.
With her legs held up, he could push aside her knickers easily. His gloved hand dipped between her thighs and she squirmed, her legs held together by his other arm and the tight embrace of her shoved-down breeches. She gasped as the stitching on his gloves tickled at her clit, hands curling around the edge of the desk.
"What I wouldn't give to have you naked right now," Martin groaned, spreading her cunt open with two fingers. He couldn't reach her to kiss her, so he kissed at the leather of her boots.
"Another time," she whispered.
He grinned at that, and his hand left her to instead work the clasps of his breeches open.
He was buried inside of her in another second, hard and thick and as deep as her body would let him go, and her head fell back against the desk. She felt the edge of a book beneath her, and squirmed, moving her head to the side.
She read the spine reflectively. Tynan. Her belly twisted with excitement and she remembered in perfect detail how that book had felt wedged between their teeth.
"Good memories, mm?" Martin murmured, leaning down as near as he could, pushing her thighs further towards her chest. The burn was intense, but her focus was wholly again on where they were joined, how he pushed into her as if he wanted to fall inside of her and never return again.
His free hand danced over her clit and lower belly, then left her entirely, planting on the desk by her head. His gloves gleamed with her dampness.
He began to move, straightening up and lessening the tension on her legs. He held them slightly to the side, so that she could see his face, the way he never looked away from her.
Her toes curled in her boots as he moved, as his brow furrowed and his body flexed. He began slowly, breathing hard, savoring every second and focusing on prolonging it. Each stroke was agonizing in its excellence, and Callista let go of the desk by her hips in favor of arching her back, straining against her corset as she reached over her head. Martin grinned and moved a little faster.
The desk beneath them began to rock and creak; she hardly noticed.
She could barely move the way he held her, could do nothing but squirm and try desperately to rut against him whenever his hips connected with the flesh of her ass, but it was more than enough. He pumped in and out of her with barely-restrained ferocity, then dropped back to gentle, slow, enticing strokes, until she couldn't stop the whines that had built in her throat from echoing in the room. Her voice filled the space around them, while he remained nearly silent, gasping, grunting, and- once or twice- whispering jumbles of words to her, about her hips, about her cunt, about her.
Callista closed her eyes, squirming, tilting her hips this way and that to maximize the sensation. When she cried out, it wasn't a sharp explosion; it was the culmination of every moment up until then, every sensation, every gasping breath. It rolled together with all the rest, and it rolled together with Martin's orgasm, his hips pressing desperately against hers, his chest bowing her legs close to her belly once more as he sagged forward.
His shoulders trembled. Her belly twitched.
Their breathing was ragged and her back began to ache from where the wood had pressed her corset in too deeply, from where her head had rubbed against the desk with each thrust. Then Martin laughed, breathily.
"Somebody no doubt heard you, Miss Curnow," he murmured, stretching to kiss at her shoulder. He eased his grip on her legs and slid out of her. She felt chill and empty as his hips left hers and air replaced his heat. Slowly, she moved to sit up, her legs protesting from how they'd been held.
"And what could they do to us?" she asked, grinning through her fuzzy lethargy.
"Not much," he agreed, grinning, as he began fixing his uniform. He grabbed for a cloth and offered it to her.
She was wiping herself down when she heard the gunshot.
It sounded distant, like the sirens had in Sokolov's office. She grew very still. Practice, out in the yard, she thought, or a weapons test run by the quartermaster. There were gunshots daily. And yet...
She stood up, pulling up her breeches mechanically and righting her uniform as she walked to the window. Martin was already there, looking out without a word.
Her belly twisted with fear.
"He should be inside," Martin said as Callista reached him. She curled her fingers around the sill and leaned forward, pressing her forehead to the glass. She could just barely see the square from where she stood. She could see a crowd that was dispersing quickly - too quickly. She saw hounds streaking into the crowd. She saw two Overseers rushing towards the stocks.
"No," she whispered.
"He should be inside," Martin repeated.
A figure that could only be Geoff Curnow hung limp in the stocks.
"Windham-"
"Windham had his orders. He wouldn't have done this," Martin said.
Callista swallowed, feeling ash collect in her belly.
"I'll fix this," Martin said, pushing away from the window. "I'll fix this. If somebody in the crowd- their aim was probably shit. I'll call for Sokolov. I'll-"
"They're not attending to him," Callista said, softly.
Martin turned back towards her. "What do you mean?"
"They're focusing on the crowd. He's not moving."
He's dead.