Chapter 23
Windham was on guard outside of the morgue. A dead man required fewer guards than a live man, and wherever Jasper was, he wasn't here. Callista was alone, and for all her grief and anger, she felt quiet. Sad. Numb.
He was thinner than she remembered. His weeks on the run had been short, but not easy. They'd stripped his corpse to the waist, and she counted his ribs, hands hovering just above his cool skin.
The bullet had punched open the base of his throat. On his front, it was a neat-edged, largish hole, no longer bleeding. If she rolled him over, she knew she'd seen a gaping wound and the jagged edges of his spine.
Somebody in the crowd had fired a single shot. Nobody had seen him. It hadn't been an Overseer, or an agent of the Regent. It had been some violent man, or some scared man, or some confused man.
She didn't touch the body. It seemed wrong, to pollute him with her presence. She twisted her hands together, and bit down on every errant noise that sought to escape from her lungs. Windham would understand, true, but she didn't deserve those exercises of grief.
She had done this.
Quietly, she added him to her mental ledger of murders. This was where all her machinations brought her. Safety was a laughable concept - not just hers, but that of everybody around her. Power and stability demanded she respond quickly, forcefully, that she eliminate all softness in herself-
But as she thought back over the last several days, she knew there was nothing she could have done to prevent this, except to have never come to Martin at all.
"All I wanted," she whispered, touching the table just by his shoulder, "was to make sure I would be okay. You told me to come here, so I did. But when you told me to leave, I wouldn't listen."
The corpse said nothing.
Outside, the intercoms blared with the truth of the Regent. Waverly Boyle had made an announcement as the crowd was cleared from the square; she would be acting Regent until Parliament could convene in two days time. Callista knew already that it would stick. Emily would settle into a life run not by a paranoid, brilliant man, but by a paranoid, brilliant woman. The world moved on. But inside the morgue, everything was still and cold. Callista settled both hands on the table, and bowed her head.
Her thoughts screeched like unoiled hinges, like grinding gears, in the scorched, nearly-barren interior of herself. She reached for the place where there was nothing left of her, needing the encircling emptiness to numb her pain once more.
Geoff's chest rose by degrees.
She held her breath, not daring to look directly at him. His chest rose to its apex, then fell again, breath gurgling through the hole in his throat. She clutched desperately at the edge of the table, and in the edges of her vision, Geoff pushed himself upright, turned in place, and swung his legs over the side of the table.
His hand was cold on her shoulder.
"If only you had run away with me," Geoff said, despite his lack of tongue. The words were round-edged, indistinct, but it was his voice.
Tears spattered the table, droplets sliding along her fingers.
"Do you remember, when you were a little girl, and Viola's daughter drowned in the ocean by our coast home?"
She nodded, seeing Delphinia's head disappear beneath the surf, and then the following stillness, as if nothing had happened at all.
"You were a child, so it would have been unfair to blame you for it." Geoff's breath rattled in his throat. "But if you hadn't been so distracted, she would never have gone into the ocean alone. If you hadn't been distracted, you might have remembered that sometimes a riptide sprung up between those two rocks. You were a child, but you were old enough to show some consideration for the safety of others."
Callista's choked sob sounded too loud in the confines of the morgue. She sank down to her knees. Geoff's hand never left her shoulder. She hunched forward, her head tucked against the side of the table.
He was right, of course.
"Your brother's illness was inevitable," Geoff continued, "but you hastened his death, too. He was weak, but you brought him dirty things from the yard. You talked too much to him when he was tired, and when he was vigorous, you didn't have time for him. There was no knife in your hand, but you are not entirely blameless, either."
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered.
"If I had let you go out to sea with the whalers - if they would have taken you at all - it would have sunk in the next great storm."
"Why? I don't understand."
Geoff didn't respond for a long moment. Then he laughed, a gurgling, rasping sound. "Because you've always been dangerous, Callista. Everything you touch, you destroy."
"That's not true," she whispered.
"Oh?"
She struggled against the weight of his accusations, accusations that should never have come from his mouth. He'd always thought her gentle, vulnerable, in need of protection.
"My students," she said at last. "None have died. Some have grown prosperous. You're wrong- I don't destroy everything."
"Then what does?"
"The world," she said. "Other people, other places. Nothing is blameless. How dare you, when you foolishly sent me letters, knowing there was no easy way for me to respond, knowing that all they did was make you vulnerable. You selfish, lonely, stupid man!"
Her cry echoed in the room, and she blinked through a sudden rush of tears. When she could see again, Geoff's body, cold and unmoving, stiff from death, lay bundled in her arms.
He'd never spoken at all. He had no tongue to do it with.
She staggered up, pressing his body back onto the table. She draped herself over it in one last hug. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I love you. I miss you."
Her body tensed, then released.
She stepped back from the table, wrapping her arms around herself.
He would likely be dumped into Rudshore, unless Martin could effect a mix-up that took him to one of the few functioning crematoria left in the city. She would never get his ashes, in any case.
"I'm sorry," she said again, to the empty world.
Anise was waiting for her in Campbell's old secret room.
"Get out," Callista said.
"We must speak, Miss Curnow."
"I would be alone." Her voice was flat. Even. Dead. The ashes inside of her clogged her throat but left her tongue free to work.
"I will be brief." Anise rose from Callista's desk and approached her. "The High Oracle requests that you join our sect. You will remain as you are, in charge of administration. You will take over communications with High Overseer Martin, but your first allegiance will be to us. You will find that our cloisters are... peaceful."
Callista froze. The Oracular Order- wanted her?
The thought of being shut safely away from the world was attractive. Desperately, brightly attractive. To be away from Martin, and from all the bodies at her feet-
"I'm not interested," she forced herself to say.
"Your interest is irrelevant. There is a greater context. The High Overseer believes he and you are an island, at odds with the world, and that though he has clawed his way to the top, he is still separate. It is understandable, given his background. But it will no longer serve him. He must understand that.
"You will help us."
Callista clenched her jaw. She didn't want to deal with this. "Leave."
"You have a month to make your decision. If you do not join us-"
Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not interested in your threats just now, Sister Anise." No, she wasn't interested.
Anise smiled. "There is no threat, Miss Curnow."
And she left.
The ride to Brigmore was grey and chill. The whole city seemed grey and chill these days, in the week since Geoff's death. His body was long gone.
Her own was still.
Martin sat beside her as the riverboat moved steadily up the Wrenhaven, but he didn't touch her, barely looked at her. They hadn't spoken more than the Abbey had required of them in the days since, and Callista hadn't found it in herself to seek him out.
Martin had been absent for much of that time. There was much to be done, after all; Waverly Boyle had gone before Parliament and been accepted - with Treavor Pendleton as co-regent. There were rumors of a potential betrothal. Lydia Boyle had denounced Hiram Burrows, but with the added assurance of her sister that her denunciation would not follow Callista's example. The Regent himself was in Abbey custody, and requests had been sent to the High Oracle to confirm the post-death pardoning of her uncle as well as the condemnation of Hiram Burrows
Brother Jasper had been arrested and was under investigation due to several ledger entries that confirmed that Burrows had paid them.
New elixir rationing was going into effect, a few handpicked students of Sokolov increasing production to keep up with demand.
They passed over the murky water of the estuaries, the depths filled with more and denser weeds the further inland they went. She peered into their shadows, half-expecting to see pale bloated faces of the dead rising to the surface. Blacky paced the deck before her, and she was focused on the spreading wake and the click of his claws when something brushed against her hand.
She turned her head to find an envelope propped against her glove.
Martin was studiously looking away from her.
She took the envelope in hand and turned it over. It was addressed to Martin, and the paper was familiar. It took her a moment to place it.
The High Oracle.
Her chest tightened for a moment, in fear of what might be inside. He'd already opened it. He already knew.
Perhaps the Oracle had told him that they thought they would take her. Perhaps the Oracle had told him that Callista had already made her decision.
But in the week since she'd spoken with Anise, all her desperate thoughts of flight had faded away. They'd been panicked, and nothing more. Her guilt had settled gently onto her shoulders once more, and though her heart felt raw and cold, she wasn't ready to give it up. She wasn't willing to be a pawn.
The riverboat drew up to its dock. Hume's men began filing off, ready to tear apart Copperspoon's nest. Martin went with them. Callista remained in her seat, and when she was alone, she drew out the folded paper inside.
High Overseer,
By now I hope that I will have read your first report. One day, perhaps, there will be a faster means of communication. But for now, I must write to you before I know your attitude towards us.
There lies a choice before you. Anise has been sent to observe it, and its fallout, and has brought this letter with her. She does not know its contents. Do not tell her.
It is also in your best interest not to share this letter with Miss Curnow, at least not in the present. If you do, you consign her to death.
Shortly, Geoff Curnow will return to Dunwall. How or why, I cannot see. What I can see is that Miss Curnow will agitate for his freedom. There are many ways that she might do this. Some will succeed.
All that succeed will end with her death instead.
It is my advice to you to take the following path: allow Geoff Curnow to die. It will not be hard. If you take no action, he will die. Miss Curnow will be bereft, and she will leave, but she will survive. And, in time, Burrows will fall on his own sword. It is the least disruptive, and it will serve the Abbey and the Oracular Order the best.
If you intervene and attempt to discredit Burrows yourself, you will force me to step in myself. It may no longer be safe to be High Overseer Teague Martin. However, I will say that Miss Curnow will be healthy and, eventually, happy. She may even remain at your side.
So what, I wonder, are your ultimate goals? Power? Safety? A woman's comfort? Are you loyal? Can I trust that you will do what must be done? Are you the High Overseer, or are you a frightened little boy, building up a castle of blocks? Tell me, Teague Martin.
I await your choice with great interest.
And there was no more.
Her heart hammered in her chest. The High Oracle had known. Martin had known. She tried to remember - how shocked had he acted in front of her, when she came back from the Royal Academy? Not very, but she'd written that off - she'd stayed hours with Sokolov to preserve appearances.
And the day she proposed her plan, Delilah Copperspoon's hand on the desk-
He'd known they could succeed. He'd also known that if supported her, Geoff would die.
Callista looked up. The men were off in the distance now, and there was distant shouting, but no gunshots. She drew herself up and went to the gangplank, then crossed to the dock, Blacky at her heels.
There, a flash of red- Martin, standing off in the flooded forest by the banks. She made for him, skirting willow branches, tromping through a few inches of fetid mud and water.
Martin didn't look up as she reached him.
Her hands trembled. In a way, he had killed Geoff. He had chosen Callista over a man he'd hardly known, over a man who she had blamed for his own death, over a potential ally. Geoff had been so many things, held so many possibilities.
And yet she couldn't be angry with him.
"You've read the letter?" Martin asked, breaking the silence.
"I have."
"So you know, then," he said, quietly. "That it was my fault. That I decided your fate for you."
Callista couldn't find words.
"Even after what you said to me the night you almost killed me. I could have told you how to save him. I chose not to. And I made no move to secure your happiness, until you suggested it."
Her chest burned. She took a deep breath.
"But you did," she said, then cleared her throat. "You did choose my happiness."
He smiled, grimly. "Have I? Perhaps the Oracle was lying. You don't seem happy."
"Thank you."
He turned, startled. "Thank-"
"It's the choice I would have made," she said, "if I had known about the letter. The city is safe. We're safe. My uncle... made his own decisions."
His throat bobbed. "I- see. However, I stand by my apology."
"As well you should," she said. Then she cleared her throat. "The High Oracle-"
"Can do whatever she wants to me," Martin said. "I can take it."
"The High Oracle has tried to recruit me," Callista said. "And left unspoken a threat if I don't decide to her liking."
He was silent, then shook his head. "It appears to be her style," he said, dryly.
"Was it Anise, then, who shot Geoff?" Callista asked, moving closer, the water sloshing around her boots. Blacky stood a few feet off, on a dry spot, unwilling to swim. "Did the Oracle ensure her predictions would come true? I'm not comfortable believing she actually saw all the possibilities. It seems more likely that she directs the flow of events."
"No," he said. "It wasn't Anise. ... Do you really want to know who it was?"
Callista considered a moment. "I do."
"I received a letter from the Empress today," he began, approaching slowly. His brows were up, concerned and wary. "We are to accompany her on a trip to Morley, in an attempt to secure allies for her legitimacy, and to get out of the worst of the plague while Sokolov and Waverly Boyle attempt new measures to control it."
"And?"
"The bullet that killed your uncle came from a military gun, likely a navy gun. An old one, at that. A few decades out of fashion." Martin reached up, rubbing at his jaw.
"I know of nobody in the navy who would have borne a grudge against my uncle," she said, slowly, frowning in thought.
"No, but we do know of one who owes a debt to your uncle. One who might think that a mercy killing was payment of that debt."
The dull grey of the world seemed to draw into sharp focus. She could see every blade of marsh grass, every ridge of bark on the surrounding trees. She could see the faint wrinkles in Martin's skin.
With that focus came rage, contained and hot.
"Havelock."
"We are going to Morley on his ship." He reached out, touching her shoulder. "Can you stand to be at sea with him?"
Clear as day, she could see herself shooting him, knocking him from the prow of his tall ship and into the unforgiving waves below. She began to shake.
"Why tell me?" she asked. "Why not lie?"
"Because you asked. Because you would've figured it out anyway, or he would have told you, and what if you had panicked? I can't leave you behind for this journey - I won't. And I am through making your choices for you. Of course," he continued, his hand sliding up to cup her jaw, "we can't do anything while on our trip to Morley, and that will strain you. And we might find, once we're there, that it is safer for us- not to return to Gristol at all, given the High Oracle's frustrations. But should that not be the case, learning about the man who killed your uncle might bring-"
"Opportunities."
"I was going to suggest closure. But yes. Opportunities as well." He smiled. "And in the meantime, we shall practice our control, hm?"
Callista nodded, slowly. Yes, this would work. She felt alive again. Alert. Focused. She looked Martin up and down. He was still her High Overseer, clever and ready to grasp at anything that would keep them - keep her - safe. She wanted that. She wanted to be his right hand.
It was better than the endless loneliness and numbness of everything she'd lost.
"And if we have to disappear?" she asked. Her gaze flicked across his face, taking in every line, every furrow.
"Do you trust me?" Martin replied.
"Always."
Martin shrugged, a small smile turning his lips. He leaned in close. His breath was warm on her lips as he murmured, "I've already stolen one Overseer's identity. What are the identities of two poor peasants to that?"
the end