Dishonored--The Corroded Man Page 3

  The room was small, spare, furnished with rugs and a table and a chair, all old and battered and worn, unlike the fittings out in the parlor. In here, it didn’t matter. She had all she needed, and that included a window that looked out onto the main street.

  Yes, this was what it had come to.

  A highly paid job throwing drunks out of a bar.

  She missed the old days, when the Golden Cat was… well, it wasn’t, had never been dangerous, exactly. But it had been… interesting. And now the gentrification that was spreading across Dunwall had reached the famous Golden Cat. The clientele had grown richer, but softer, too.

  Head of security. It felt like overkill. Galia was a trained warrior—no, more than that. Galia Fleet was an assassin.

  Or… had been. Once. Once, when Daud led the Whalers.

  She sat behind the table, put her feet up, and began to work on uncapping her new bottle of whiskey.

  She’d tried to track them down, but the Whalers were masters of deception, of slipping undetected across the city, the freedom of which was theirs thanks to the power Daud had allowed them all to share.

  The only one she’d actually been able to find had been Rinaldo, and he’d come to her. What was it… five, no, six years ago? He’d come into the Cat, his dark features hidden behind a beard, his wild hair streaked with gray, matted into thick, dirty dreadlocks. But there had been no mistaking the glint in his eye, the way his mouth curled to one side when he smiled, and the scar over his left eye, an echo of a past life, a past battle—one in which she, if she remembered rightly, had saved Rinaldo’s skin.

  She took every opportunity to remind him of it.

  Had he tracked her down to the Golden Cat to reminisce over old times, or come in to partake of the pleasures of the establishment without realizing she was there? Galia had never found out, but they had talked and laughed and drank, and at Galia’s request the proprietor had given the former assassin a one-time discount. After that she offered him a job, one he sorely needed.

  Galia and Rinaldo, united again, keeping safe the courtesans of the Golden Cat.

  Rinaldo might not have expected to find Galia working at the Cat, but he admitted that he, too, had been looking for old friends from time to time, without much luck. Some had gained employment on trading vessels, others on whaling ships, or in the whale oil processing factories. They’d laughed at that. “Whalers” becoming whalers, changing jobs but not their masks.

  The bottle cap finally came loose, and Galia took a long gulp of the fiery liquid as she glanced over to the bookcase on her right. The shelves, like most of the room, were bare.

  Save for the Whaler’s mask, pride of place in the center of the bookcase.

  Gathering dust.

  Not a day went by when Galia hadn’t wished Daud were here. It had been years—fourteen, at least, Galia thought, pretending not to have counted the days one by one by one. And in that time, the itch had not faded away. If anything, it had grown stronger and stronger, the itch becoming an ache becoming a burning agony in her mind. The drink helped, of course, dulling the pain along with the rest of her senses.

  That itch, that ache, wasn’t a pang for adventure, or for danger, although Galia knew she craved both of those things. Her new life was easy, it was safe—two things Galia always thought she would abhor. There was no pleasure in life if you took it for granted. Life was to be fought for, to be risked, in order to be truly appreciated.

  But the ache, it was more than that. She’d worked hard at burying it in her mind, but recently it had bubbled to the surface more and more. It didn’t matter how much she drank, how much she trained, alone in her apartment at the top of the building, trying to keep herself in condition even as nothing more than the simple passage of time took it away from her.

  What she wanted was what Daud had given her, as he had given to all his Whalers.

  Galia closed her eyes, and there, just there, as she squeezed her eyelids closed and watched the darkness moving and sparking blue like a shorting whale oil tank, she saw the memory, and she imagined herself transversing, the turning of the world stopped for just a split second as she pulled herself across the rooftops of the city, crossing an alley, a street, as she came up behind an unwitting target, the blade in her hand already sinking to the hilt in the victim’s side before they even knew she was there.

  That was power—Daud’s gift. To move in the blink of an eye, the geometry of the world unfolding just for her, for his Whalers, allowing them a freedom of movement that was beyond the imagining of most people. That kind of movement, transversing, that was power.

  She hadn’t missed it at first. To be free of Daud’s thrall was like waking up on a cold morning, sober, alive, aware. Energized. A reaction, perhaps, to the withdrawal of Daud’s gift.

  It got worse after that, becoming a pain that was almost physical, driving her first to despair and then to hard liquor. At first, working at the Cat provided an outlet, something new on which to focus, but soon enough it became—like everything in life—merely ordinary. A routine to be repeated every single day.

  It had taken years to realize how far she had fallen. One day Galia woke up and the city looked different, and she realized she had lost weeks, months, years to her misery, to the pain—a pain she had grown to love.

  So she embraced it. She used it. She began training again, returning to the life of a Whaler, if not to the old job. The world had moved on and had left her behind, and now she raced to catch up.

  The drink helped, of course, as it always had. Rinaldo didn’t approve. Galia wasn’t sure she’d ever seen that man taste a single drop—

  There was a thump from outside the office door, heavy and wooden, ending with a rattle. Galia blinked out of her reverie and cocked her head, listening. She recognized the sound. Someone had thrown open the front door, with quite some force.

  Another drunk—

  No. The same drunk. That bloody oaf with the sword stick. He’d probably been found by his friends, and now they were coming back to cause a little scene. Young aristocrats were all the bloody same. Thought they owned the bloody place.

  Fine. If that’s the game they want to play, then so be it. It was time to show these young idiots who was in charge, no matter the lineage of their birth or the amount of coin in their purses.

  Galia dragged her feet off the table and made her way to the door. She paused there and listened. She could hear talking, murmurs really. Nothing that sounded out of the ordinary.

  She relaxed. Maybe they’d gone on their way. Maybe Rinaldo and the other guards had seen them off.

  Good. She turned from the door, her eyes back on the bottle of Old Dunwall Whiskey on her desk.

  Then there was a crash from the parlor, and shouting. Lots of shouting. The surprise helped to sober her up. She wheeled around and yanked open the office door, then ripped aside the curtain that hid it from the parlor. She pulled the knife from her belt.

  “What in the High Overseer’s balls is going on here?” she shouted.

  The parlor was in chaos—courtesans and their clients, most half-drunk or worse, most half-dressed or worse, were running to the back of the room and beyond, clothes hastily grabbed, veils held high. A couple even stood behind one of the big velvet curtains, the drapery pulled around their bodies for protection.

  In the center of the room stood Rinaldo and three of the Cat’s minders, knives out, standing to protect the clients and keep their new visitor at bay.

  The visitor didn’t move from the doorway. He wore a dark woolen greatcoat with red epaulets and brass buttons. The collar of the greatcoat was pulled up so high that it formed a black fan behind the man’s head. Under the collar, his neck was wrapped in a woven fur scarf that was pulled up over his mouth and nose. The upper part of his face was likewise hidden behind two great red circular glass eyepieces, each nearly as big as the saucer of a fine Morley tea set. The outlandish, heavy outfit was topped off by a black hat with a huge circular brim which p
ushed against the top of the overturned coat collar. His hands were encased in thick leather gloves.

  He stood, motionless, like a mannequin from a Drapers Ward fashion house.

  Rinaldo rolled his neck and lifted his knife toward the intruder.

  “I don’t know who you are, friend, but this ain’t no way to go about it. You either show yourself and show your coin, or we throw you into the gutter out back, and deduct a fee for our services.”

  The intruder didn’t speak. It looked as if he was just standing, staring, but Galia knew he was likely scanning the whole room and those in it, his eyes completely hidden behind his goggles. His gloved hands were curled into fists, and there was no way to know what weapons he was hiding underneath the huge coat. It might have been the Month of Darkness, but it was hardly that cold outside, even at this time of night. There was no reason for the strange getup.

  Unless he was hiding something.

  “Okay, that’s enough—” Galia said, taking a step toward the man, her own knife held out in front, but the words caught in her throat as the intruder turned his face toward her. It was unnerving, the way she couldn’t see it. In fact, all she could see was her own distorted reflection in his goggles.

  She glanced down at his hands. He wasn’t reaching for anything, and the buttons of his coat were fastened up to the neck. If he was hiding something underneath, there didn’t seem to be any way of getting it out quickly.

  Galia frowned, then nodded her head at the security detail.

  “Rinaldo, show our friend here the exit and use your knife on his purse strings.”

  Rinaldo grunted a reply and took a step forward.

  That was when the intruder sprang into life. His elbow came up and out, and he swung backward, catching Rinaldo in the chest. Rinaldo staggered, but only briefly. Recovering in an instant, he and his men rushed toward the interloper. Galia, too, her knife heading straight for the man’s scarf-wrapped neck.

  Suddenly she stumbled, then stood, nearly tripping over Rinaldo and the others.

  The man had gone. Vanished, between the blinks of an eye.

  There was a gasp from the Cat’s patrons, most of whom were still cowering at the back of the parlor. Galia spun, her knife out, searching, not quite believing what she had seen. Behind her, Rinaldo and the others recovered and fanned out, creeping forward, each of the three men facing a different corner of the room.

  It was impossible. Impossible.

  Galia stopped.

  No, not impossible. Improbable, perhaps, but she had seen something like that before. In fact, she had been able to do it herself, many years ago.

  Before Daud had slipped away, leaving it all behind, taking the magic with him.

  “Show yourself!” she yelled, and the patrons gasped again in fright. There was a crunching sound. Galia and the others spun to face it, and saw the intruder standing on the other side of the room.

  No, he wasn’t. It was his reflection in the huge mirror with baroque gold frame, one of many that hung all over the parlor walls. Galia spun away from the mirror, her instinct telling her the stranger was standing behind her.

  But… he wasn’t.

  She turned back, just in time to see the man’s reflection move out of the mirror and into the room, his own reflection becoming visible behind him.

  Galia gritted her teeth.

  “That’s some trick,” she said, “but you picked the wrong parlor to show it off in.” She rushed forward, Rinaldo and the others behind her.

  Now this—this—was a good night. She hadn’t had to cut a patron open in a long, long time.

  But the intruder was fast, even under the heavy winter clothing. Expertly he blocked Galia’s attack, parrying with an arm and riposting with the other. Rinaldo and the other two security guards joined the fray. Together they surrounded the intruder. They were trained. Ready and able to fight.

  So, it seemed, was the intruder. At the center of the fray he was a dervish, the tails of his coat whirling as he blocked, attacked, counterattacked. Galia’s knife—and Rinaldo’s, too—made several palpable hits, but their sharpened blades were unable to penetrate the thick cloth of the coat.

  Within moments one of the security men was down, blood arcing from his face as he careened backward, eliciting more screams from the patrons. Galia saw it out of the corner of her eye, and yelled as she redoubled her efforts. As she fought, she saw Rinaldo grin on the other side of the intruder. He was enjoying it as much as she was. Just like old times.

  The intruder staggered under the attack. Galia pressed the advantage, forcing him back against the wall. Against another of the large mirrors.

  There was a crunching sound, like boots on snow.

  The man was gone.

  A shadow-shape out of the corner of her eye. Galia turned, and saw the man stepping out of another mirror, among the huddled patrons. They screamed and scrambled away, but the man ignored them.

  The last of Galia’s men charged, but was knocked down almost instantly. At Galia’s side, Rinaldo tensed, but she reached out and grabbed his shirt.

  “No, wait,” she said.

  The two of them faced the intruder who, apparently, was none the worse for wear, his scarf, hat and goggles still in place. He did not move.

  Galia stepped forward. She looked up into those goggles, tossing her blade end over end in her hand. Then she caught the handle and returned the weapon to its sheath on her belt.

  “Hey, Galia, sweetness,” Rinaldo said, “what are you—”

  “Shut up, Rinaldo.” Galia cocked her head. She felt…

  Actually, she felt good. Light-headed, and not just from the whiskey. She had enjoyed the fight—okay, so that wasn’t quite why she was in this job—but more than that, seeing the stranger, the intruder, had rekindled a fire within her that was many, many years cold.

  This stranger, who wore a strange outfit more suited to the snows of Tyvia. Who fought like a soldier. Who could move in the blink of an eye, traveling through, it seemed, mirrors.

  It wasn’t transversal, the ability to stop time and pull yourself across two points in space, the gift that Daud had shared with the Whalers.

  But it was… close. It was a power, too.

  She looked into the stranger’s red eyes and was overcome with vertigo, the sensation of falling, falling, falling…

  She saw,

  Men. Lots and lots of men, their heads covered with hoods, their faces obscured by large masks with glass eyes, respirator cans bouncing as they slaughtered the enemy, the City Watch, the Wrenhaven River Patrol falling before them.

  In front, a Whaler in a dark-red coat. A leader. The best of the best. The leader called out, and Galia recognized the voice.

  It was her voice. These were her men. She was a leader. She was the best of the best.

  And then Galia the leader vanished in a swirl of inky nothing, and then her men followed…

  Galia swayed on her feet, the room snapping back into focus. She felt the itch, the ache, burning inside her. For just a moment, just a second, Galia wanted to scream her desire, her demand for a share of that power to the strange intruder.

  And then the feeling was gone.

  She pursed her lips. She had to know. Had to know who the man was, why he was here. He wasn’t Daud. He was too tall. But then again, the disguise, the clothing… the power. Maybe he knew Daud.

  Maybe he—

  “Galia Fleet,” the intruder said, and Galia gasped and took a step backward. The voice was loud but muffled. Male, deep, resonant, but… rough. Dry. She would have thought he sounded sick, if it wasn’t for the fact that he had easily bested four security guards.

  She opened her mouth but no words came out.

  “I’m not here to fight you, Galia,” the intruder said. “I’m here to rescue you.”

  2

  NEW MERCANTILE DISTRICT, DUNWALL

  8th Day, Month of Darkness, 1851

  “At times I have ventured beyond the city walls, meeting in
forgotten graveyards and the outlying ruins frequented by those of ill means.”

  — RUMORS AND SIGHTINGS: DAUD

  Excerpt from an Overseer’s covert field report

  Emily peered over the edge of the building, which stood on the western side of the large square. She peered down, and for a moment held her breath, wondering what in all the Isles was going on.

  It was late, later than she would’ve liked, but she’d come a long way—perhaps too far. Out of Dunwall Tower, over Kaldwin’s Bridge and, skirting the Boyle Mansion, up to the tall Clocktower on the northern border of the Estate District. At the Clocktower she’d paused a while, considering her next route of exploration.

  It was a cold night, but a calm one. The rains and winds that came with a dreary inevitability over the last couple of months had given way to short days and long nights as the chill swept in over the city. Tonight the drizzle was merely irritating, and between the broken clouds above there was a moon that shone, full and bright.

  North. She would go north, up to the edge of the city, where there was a lot of new construction, whole new districts slowly growing up as the walls of Dunwall were extended outward, in the only direction the city really could expand. It was an area she didn’t know well, but to her, that was part of the reason for these nocturnal excursions. This was her city, legally speaking, and it was a city she wanted to know as well as the inside of Dunwall Tower itself.

  From the Clocktower she followed a broad avenue that took her not directly north, but northwest. She traveled for perhaps an hour, stopping to watch, to observe. The streets were quiet and Emily had taken the usual precautions, sticking to the shadows and eaves, keeping out of sight of windows and doorways and the streets themselves, as much as possible. She’d seen a few people moving around—a couple of patrols of the City Watch, a couple of couples making a damp journey home from whatever evening’s entertainment they had enjoyed.

  That was one benefit of exploring at this time of the year—it was cold, but not that cold, so she could move around unnoticed. The early call of winter was enough to keep people inside when the hours grew small, but without freezing her to death in the process.