Dishonored--The Corroded Man Read online

  And insecure. Easy enough to sneak into.

  Ever cautious, she chose to enter via the river side, jumping the wall that ran along the embankment and clambering over the rusting girders that supported the underside of the wharf. Here it was near total darkness, and the going was difficult, but eventually she reached the giant dockside doors, grateful not to have fallen into the river.

  The main doors were closed. There was a smaller door set into the wall for factory workers to use, and as Emily clambered up to the top side of the wharf and got closer, she paused to reconsider her options.

  Because the factory was not empty.

  Closer now, she could hear from within the sounds of work—hammering, metal on metal, and chains being dragged. The factories were, as a matter of course, insulated for sound, not so much because the process of whale oil extraction and processing itself was loud, but to save nearby residents from the terrible whistles and screams of the poor animals as they were harvested.

  Emily moved up to the small inset door and pressed her ear against it. There were lots of people inside, working.

  What in all the Isles is going on?

  That ruled out entering through the small door. She looked around for another option, her eyes falling on the nearby fire escape, the metal framework of which spiraled up and up the flat side of the factory, platforms at intervals corresponding to the internal floors of the building, each with a door. The lowest platform was high above her head, the bottom rungs of the retractable ladder tantalizingly out of reach.

  Then Emily spied fat iron pipes coming out of the wall just a little farther along, running horizontally along the length of the building and disappearing into the darkness. Waste pipes, perhaps.

  They would do nicely.

  Steeling herself, she ran, heading toward the pipes. She jumped, planting a foot on the topmost pipe to propel herself higher, stretching to catch the bottom edge of the fire escape ladder. She grabbed it with her padded gloves, but the ladder remained resolutely where it was, rusted in place.

  Swinging in mid-air, Emily wasted no time. Hanging from both arms, she twisted around to face the factory wall and began to rock herself back and forth to gain momentum. Then, judging the timing, she released her grip, kicked off the factory wall and turned in the air, grabbing the platform above her and—momentum on her side—pulling herself up onto it.

  From here the going was easy. She swung around onto the escape stairs and headed up, not stopping until she reached the door leading to the very top floor, a dizzying height above the street.

  The door was jammed but, under steady pressure from Emily’s shoulder, it eventually shuddered open, and she went inside.

  Once she was inside the noise was surprising, as was the heat. She had emerged high up on a gantry near the ceiling. It formed a railed gallery that orbited the entire periphery of the slaughterhouse, with black iron stairs branching off at intervals, leading down to a lower platform that ran around the edge of the slaughterhouse offices, themselves a large, multistoried block that rose up from the factory floor, with windows on three sides through which to observe work.

  Glancing across, Emily could see no movement behind the windows of the offices. She dropped to her knees, then to her stomach, and slid along the gallery until she was at its lip. She peered over the edge, wincing as the heat from the factory floor rose up, squinting against the bright yellowy-orange light. Sound echoed up from below. She pulled her hood back a little and looked down.

  The factory floor was a hive of activity. In the center of the floor was the largest of the overflow whale oil vats, a rectangular pool that must have been a hundred yards on the longest side, by perhaps thirty yards across. This was the source of the heat, and the light.

  The vat was filled with a glowing liquid that rolled heavily, like molten glass. Around the edge of the vat stood a number of men, silhouetted by the reddish glow, each holding a long pole that they worked through the thick, roiling substance. Occasionally a bubble broke the surface, the liquid spitting like lava, and revealing a hotter, brighter interior. The men seemed to be wearing protective masks and hoods.

  There were others working on the factory floor, assembling a rig adapted from one of the whale frames that would have hung over the oil vat. The frame had been partially disassembled, the cradle and chains separated and laid out as the men dragged pieces of it around, cutting the chain and metal struts into new sections and reassembling the whole thing into something else entirely.

  Emily counted twenty men at work. Too many to tackle, even for her.

  Then she felt vibrations through her body as she lay on the platform, and glancing across to her left she saw two other men slowly walking along the iron gallery two levels down, deep in conversation as they watched the work below. They were dressed like the rest, although up here their masks hung loosely from straps around their necks, their hoods pulled back. One of the men drank from a canteen, then handed it to his companion.

  She couldn’t take out the gang, but what she could do was gather information. It was clear this wasn’t just grave robbing. It was a large operation, far bigger than she had anticipated finding. Anything she could learn would be helpful to Corvo.

  Emily pulled back into the shadows against the wall and slipped silently along the gallery, heading toward the stairs and the two men on the platform below.

  * * *

  As she approached, she could hear their conversation. Grateful for the deep shadows cast by the light of the boiling vat below, Emily padded forward, then ducked into a corner by the stairs to observe, and to listen.

  The second man sucked back on the canteen, then wiped his mouth and handed it back to its owner, who shook it, then turned it upside down. Only a few drops fell out.

  “Yeah, thanks, that’s just great,” he said, screwing the cap back on and swinging it over his shoulder so it hung at his hip.

  “Hey, you said I could have a drink. This is bloody hot work.”

  “I said you could have a drink, yes,” the other said, “but I didn’t say you could finish it.”

  His friend leaned over the railings, apparently ignoring the other’s protests.

  “How much longer do you think this will take?”

  The other adjusted the canteen strap, and shrugged.

  “As long as possible, my friend, as long as possible.”

  “What?”

  “Money, my friend, money. The longer they want me, the more I can collect.”

  His friend laughed. “You’re crazy. The heat has got to your head.”

  “Nah, you forget, I’m from Karnaca. You think this is hot work? I used to work in the silver mines there. Now that was hot. And the dust! You wouldn’t believe the dust. Y’know Karnaca has a Dust District? I’m serious. There’s a whole quarter of Karnaca buried in the stuff.”

  “Uh-huh,” his friend said. “The imagination of you Serkonans knows no bounds. Dust District? Do me a favor.”

  The pair laughed.

  In the shadows, Emily frowned. The banter wasn’t informative, and she was wasting valuable time. What she really needed to do was get down onto the factory floor and take a close look for herself. And to do that, she needed a disguise.

  A hooded, masked uniform would work well.

  She studied the two men standing at the rail. The one with the canteen was too big—a full head taller than she was. But his shorter, slimmer companion would do—as would his clothes. There was something about that uniform, about that mask, that reminded Emily of something, but she couldn’t think what, so she pushed it out of her mind to focus on the task ahead of her.

  She waited a moment, watching for the best approach, when her patience was rewarded.

  “Here,” the man with the canteen said. He slipped the strap over his head, and held the bottle out to his companion. “You drank it, you fill it.” He tapped the bottle against the man’s shoulder. “Take it from the rain cistern. Should be full after last night.”

 
; “Yeah, fine,” the smaller man said, taking the bottle and turning around. He headed toward Emily’s hiding position by the stairs. She held her breath, tried to make herself as small and as still as possible in the corner. Just feet away, the man grabbed the rail of the stairs and turned his back to her as he began to climb.

  He didn’t get far. Emily pushed off from the wall, approached him at a fast crouch, and just as the man went for the first step, she wrapped an arm around his throat and squeezed.

  A strangled grunt, and the man was out in seconds, his unconscious body slumping against her. She bent over and, with a heave, slid the man across her shoulders. He was heavy—very heavy—but she didn’t need to go far. Buckling under his weight, Emily turned and moved back to the corner by the wall. Laying the man down against it, she got to work, undoing the buckles on the leather straps that crisscrossed his tunic, her nose nearly pressed against the mask that hung around his neck.

  Then Emily froze.

  She glanced up, then jerked her head back as recognition finally dawned. She had seen the uniform before. And the mask—yes, the mask… that was etched into her mind forever. She’d been so focused on the moment that she’d somehow not realized who these men were.

  The gang were Whalers. The most secretive, the most dangerous, criminal cartel in Dunwall. No mere street gang, the Whalers were mercenaries, assassins-for-hire.

  Emily’s fingers fell from the man’s tunic. Her heart thundered in her chest and she felt a hot, hard lump materialize in her throat.

  The Whalers had killed her mother. They had ended her life, right in front of Emily’s ten-year-old eyes. Acting on the orders of Hiram Burrows, then the Royal Spymaster, they had helped instigate the coup that had toppled Empress Jessamine Kaldwin, starting a reign of terror that had only ended when Corvo had killed Burrows himself.

  She forced herself to breathe, breathe, breathe. She didn’t have much time. She was here to investigate the gang, to take that information back to Corvo. She was the Empress now, and she was determined to protect her city to the best of her abilities. Yet her eyes felt hot and wet. She inhaled deeply, closed her lids, willed her hands to stop shaking.

  Whalers. Back in Dunwall. Now, here, today.

  Emily opened her eyes and exhaled slowly, counting the seconds away in her mind. Then she gritted her teeth and redoubled her efforts on the unconscious man’s buckles.

  Yes, Whalers. She’d made one discovery already—and if anything, the fact that it was this group only strengthened her resolve.

  She would not let the Whalers get the better of the Kaldwins, ever again.

  * * *

  The man leaning on the rail stood tall as the footfalls approached him, but he didn’t turn around.

  “That was fast,” he said. When there was no answer, he turned around.

  There was nobody there.

  Huh. He was imagining things. He looked up, trying to see where his companion had gone. He couldn’t have even reached the rain cistern yet. He looked down, then turned around with a start.

  His companion was standing right behind him. For some reason he had donned his mask again.

  “Hey! Stop creeping around like that,” the man at the railing said. “Did you fill the canteen?”

  A shake of the head.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, an engraved invitation from the Empress of the Isles?” He waved his friend away, then turned back around to the railing.

  Suddenly a small but very strong arm encircled his neck and squeezed. The man grabbed at the arm, pulling with both hands as his trachea was forced shut. His knees were kicked out and he could do nothing to stop himself being dragged backward, along the platform, into the shadows.

  * * *

  Satisfied that the man and his friend would sleep for a long while, safely trussed up and locked in a factory office, Emily adjusted the straps of the Whaler’s mask around the back of her head to ensure they were secure. She took a deep, rubbery breath, and headed down to the slaughterhouse floor.

  Loitering in the shadows, she watched the men at work. Lower down the heat from the vat was impressive, her cheeks burning even behind the thick rubber and leather of the mask. None of the men were speaking, each engrossed in his appointed tasks. Besides, it was too noisy for conversation.

  This was no good. Emily wanted to learn what was going on, but with nobody talking, there was nothing here on the slaughterhouse floor that she couldn’t have seen from the safety of the iron galleries above.

  She considered her options, and didn’t like any of them.

  Perhaps there was something up in the factory offices. Emily turned and headed back for the stairs, grateful that she hadn’t yet been picked out as an intruder.

  “You there!”

  She stopped, her foot on the bottom stair, and looked up. On the platform above was another of the Whalers, this one wearing a jacket that was a dirty red, instead of the browns and greens of the rest of them—including Emily’s borrowed outfit. This Whaler was a woman, the only one in the gang, as far as Emily had been able to tell. She was youngish, maybe in her thirties, the bags under her eyes suggesting that she had led a tough life. She had short blonde hair that looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a long while.

  Emily held her breath and curled her fists. She could take out one, perhaps, but it would be pointless. There would be a slaughterhouse full of others on top of her in an instant.

  She was stuck.

  The Whaler rattled down the stairs and came up to her.

  “Upstairs,” she said. “Now.” She stepped around Emily and bent down to grab a discarded section of pipe from the big framework that was under construction. Walking back to the stairs, she began banging the pipe on the iron rails to get the attention of the others over the din of their work.

  “It’s time!” she yelled, and she waved at the workers to come with her. Then she turned and walked back up the stairs, ignoring Emily, who hadn’t moved.

  Emily turned and followed, her heart racing as she found herself at the head of the group, following the red-jacketed leader into the office on the second gallery level. The room was big and empty, whatever furniture had been in there long since vanished. The red-jacketed Whaler stepped out to the front and turned around, her arms folded, as the members of her gang assembled before her—with Emily front and center.

  Then the door at the back of the room opened and a man walked in.

  Emily blew out her cheeks. Her eyes—safely hidden behind the mask—widened in surprise. The man wasn’t wearing the Whaler’s uniform—in fact, he couldn’t have been more different, dressed as he was in his huge, heavy woolen greatcoat. But more remarkable was the face—or rather, the way it was hidden, not by a respirator mask but by a thick fur scarf that must have been wrapped around four or five times. Above the scarf, a huge pair of protective goggles, their circular lenses tinted a bright red. Topping the outfit off was a black hat with a large circular brim.

  The man had to be baking in the heat of the factory, yet he showed no signs of discomfort. He stood in front of the group, looking the Whalers over, although it was really impossible to tell where his gaze went. Emily found her own eyes drawn to his goggles, to the curved, fish-eyed reflection of herself at the front of the group.

  For a moment her head spun and then…

  She sees,

  A throne.

  A knife.

  A storm raging over Dunwall Tower. Lightning flashes silently.

  All she can hear is laughter, and the laughter is her own.

  Emily blinked and rocked on her heels. She tasted bile at the back of her throat. The vision…

  But it was gone. It was never there. She blinked again, focusing on the man who was speaking. It must have been the heat, the sick rubber smell of the mask, the adrenaline pumping through her body.

  “The work progresses with great speed,” the man said, his voice deep, dry, muffled only a little by the scarf. “The plan proceeds to schedule.”


  Emily blinked again. The room swam a little, but the feeling was passing.

  “We’re ready for the next phase of the operation,” the man continued, “and for this we need more materials.”

  There was a muttering from the workers. Beside Emily, a couple of the Whalers—their masks now lifted from their faces—turned to each other and gave looks that didn’t seem particularly happy. The red-jacketed leader took a step forward, her hands on her hips.

  “Enough!” she yelled. The workers fell silent. “You’re being paid more than you’re worth, so you’ll do just what the Boss says, okay?”

  At that she turned to the man in the coat. He merely nodded at her. Then the Whaler turned to face them again, and continued her address.

  “We need more materials, so we’re going to get them. I’ll be leading the expedition, with Rinaldo. It’ll be an easy job—straight in, straight out. We’ll be hitting a crypt at an estate outside of Dunwall. The place is derelict and abandoned, has been for years, so there won’t be anyone to disturb us. But be prepared.”

  The room fell silent again, all eyes—and masks—turned toward the strange man in the big coat. The red-coated Whaler paused, then nodded.

  “Yes,” she said, quietly. “We must be prepared.”

  Then she looked up into the man’s red-glassed eyes and she seemed to sway on her feet, just a little. Emily glanced over at the man. She looked into his goggles, and she felt her body sway too, and…

  She sees,

  The throne room. Dirty. Dusty. The floor is the wrong color. It is wet. It shines in the flashing lightning, like the roof is missing, like the palace is in ruins, open to the night sky.

  She sees,

  Corvo. He grins. He grins as the man he holds with an arm around the neck struggles and struggles. The prisoner is speaking, waving his arms, but Emily doesn’t hear him. All she hears is laughter.

  Her laughter.