Dishonored--The Corroded Man Read online

  Eventually she found the old city wall and, skipping through the shadows past a patrol of the City Watch, she crossed over. This was new territory, the city growing to absorb the small towns and villages that had once been separate. Here she crouched in the high gables of a tall house, one of a dozen that surrounded the old square.

  Except… it wasn’t a square, not quite. As Emily looked down, it took her a moment to realize that the streets in this new district were more than quiet—they were empty. Literally so. The district appeared to be mostly residential, the houses pressed tightly against each other in rows like most other parts of the city, although here they were bigger, with narrow alleyways separating the buildings at regular intervals. It looked like a nice area, but, Emily realized, these large, lavish homes were, in fact, completely unoccupied.

  Perhaps that wasn’t such a surprise, she told herself. The Rat Plague may have been a decade and a half gone, but the city had been hit hard. In some areas, residents had been forced from their homes as their streets became too dangerous, as household after household succumbed to the disease, transforming neighbors, family, friends, into weepers.

  That, in turn, became an open invitation for the gangs to move in—the Bottle Street Gang, the Dead Eels, the Hatters, and later the Parliament Street Cutters. Areas of the city that once provided happy homes for happy families became derelict badlands, areas that even the City Watch left to their own devices.

  But that was before. History, ancient. Dunwall had changed. The Rat Plague was a footnote in the past and, with Emily’s guidance, the city was rebuilding itself—which included expansion north, beyond the city walls.

  Places like this.

  As Emily looked closer, she could see that the homes here were not derelict, although they did show signs of neglect. The square, and the buildings that orbited it, had most likely been part of a large village or small town, once hit hard by the plague and abandoned. Then, as the city rebuilt itself, the whole place had most likely been bought up in one job lot by a developer. That wasn’t uncommon.

  So for now, the houses slept, patiently awaiting repair and restoration.

  For now, they were empty.

  The square in the center was not.

  Emily ducked down, crawling forward on her elbows to the lip of the rooftop to get a better look. Reaching the edge, she pulled her hood up. Water trickled from its peak down her nose, and she wiped it away. She shuffled on her stomach and brought out her spyglass, a short, ornate tube of dark metal and brass fittings. She placed it against her right eye, and adjusted the geared wheels with both hands, bringing the scene—the men at work, far below—into sharp focus.

  The square was perhaps one hundred yards along each side, and was bordered by high black iron rails. It appeared to be a private park of some kind for the residents—overgrown now, the grass long, the twisted metalwork of pergolas and ornate bench seats scattered around it, once a scene of reflection and relaxation, now choked with weeds. At the far corner stood a gnarled tree, its bare branches reaching for the night sky like skeletal fingers silhouetted in the moonlight.

  There was something else in the park, aside from the ironwork and the seats. Pale in the moonlight, there was a series of standing stones, some nearly covered by grass that was waist-high. They were arranged in crooked rows, the stones themselves keening at odd angles. Some had fallen altogether.

  This wasn’t a park or a private garden, Emily realized with a start. She lowered the spyglass to look with her own, unaided eyes.

  It was a cemetery.

  Which made the people who were working in it, under the cover of moonlit darkness, grave robbers.

  Emily looked again through the spyglass, twisting the mechanism to zoom out as much as possible. There were five of them. Each wore a long coat against the cold, heads covered, like Emily’s, with a hood. But unlike her, each of them appeared to be masked. They worked by the dim yellow light of hooded lanterns, the weak illumination hardly adequate for any kind of labor, Emily thought. Occasionally that light caught their faces, but from her high vantage point, even with the spyglass, Emily could see nothing but sharp glinting, as though they were wearing eyeglasses or goggles.

  Over on the west side of the cemetery stood a pair of big iron gates that hung permanently open, their metalwork caught in thick branches of shrubbery that had grown through them over the years. Next to the gates was a covered wagon. The horse shackled to the front was silent and unmoving, its breath steaming in the cold night as they continued their work.

  Continued their digging.

  The cemetery looked old. One man leaned against one of the taller, more upright stones as he watched two of his cohorts, the pair standing waist-deep in an open grave. They continued to mine beneath their feet. Beside the hole stood another pair.

  A moment later, they stopped digging. Emily couldn’t hear any of them speak, but the three who had been watching sprang into action, waving and gesticulating at one another. One of the diggers climbed out of the grave with some help, while the second digger bent down, disappearing out of Emily’s sight and into the earth.

  The remaining group gathered around, bending down, some kneeling, reaching into the grave. Slowly, awkwardly, a long box was brought up and shunted sideways onto the embankment of freshly dug earth. Emily twisted the spyglass to get a closer look.

  The man still standing in the grave climbed out on his knees and shuffled over in the mud. He felt around the edge of the exhumed coffin, like he was checking for something, then, apparently satisfied, he braced himself on it to push himself to his feet. He waved at the others. Two men grabbed the coffin, one at either end, and lifted, carrying it swiftly across the cemetery and through the open gates. Two others jogged in front to peel back the canvas cover of the wagon in preparation to receive the sarcophagus.

  Emily zoomed out again and then gasped, heart racing, as she saw what was in the back of the wagon.

  More coffins.

  Four, perhaps five, with the new addition slotted in next to the others.

  Emily turned her attention back to the small cemetery, scanning it through the spyglass. The group had been busy. Several graves had been disturbed, apparently dug up, the burials dragged to the surface. She had missed them before, the piles of dark earth melting into the shadows of the overgrown burial ground.

  What in all the Isles is going on? Emily thought.

  Were they clearing the site? Maybe the whole area, houses and all, was going to be demolished, which meant relocating the cemetery so work could take place. That was logical… but she knew that wasn’t the answer.

  There was something about them and their work that turned her stomach. If their activities had been legitimate, they would hardly be doing the work in the dead of night, would they? Anything like this would be done during the day, the work supervised by the City Watch, or at least a city planning official. Emily didn’t know the minutiae of everything that was going on in Dunwall as it was being rebuilt—that was impossible, and unnecessary—but she could easily check.

  No, there was something… sinister about it. The way the people were not just hooded but masked, the way they worked in silence, in the night, under the greasy and flickering sickly yellow light of their lanterns.

  There was nothing normal, nothing official about it. They were grave robbers, plain and simple. Perhaps the remnants of one of the old street gangs, looking for a new source of income, plundering the riches buried with the dead.

  The thought brought a cold, hard lump to Emily’s stomach. She slid back along the flat roof, back into the shade of the gable behind her, thinking the situation over in her mind.

  She came to a decision. An obvious one.

  There were five masked strangers. They were preoccupied with their grisly task, and they thought they were alone.

  Five robbers. And one of her.

  The answer came easily. She could take them on. She could stop them, put an end to their night work of horror. She knew
she could.

  She crawled forward again, scanning the cemetery, the thieves, the surrounding buildings.

  She could take them. She knew it. Corvo had taught her well, and this was the perfect opportunity to put that training to a practical use. This was her city.

  Emily slipped the spyglass back into her jacket, then looked around the cemetery and the houses. She calculated positions, rehearsed movements in her mind as she watched them head back into the cemetery, moving to the next grave. It occurred to her they were more than likely armed, if this was a secret, hidden crime.

  That was fine. Just fine.

  She looked up, assessed her surroundings, calculated that if she moved across to the eastern side of the square, where one building had an elaborate porticoed balcony that jutted out over the street below, practically hanging over the railed edge of the cemetery itself, she could pick a route down to the ground, using shadows and vegetation to hide her progress until she was in striking distance. The robbers would be busy digging. She would have an easy advantage.

  She could do this.

  She knew it.

  She lifted herself from the damp roof, then glanced to her right, checking her path.

  Up to the roof of the neighboring building, which stands half a floor higher. Across the top, down to the window ledge of the building at the corner. Up the heavy drain of the building, then across that roof, out onto the overhang. Drop down onto the balcony, hide in the shadows behind the pillars and check the situation.

  Reassess, choose the next path.

  The thieves would never see her coming.

  Emily turned and ran in a crouch toward her first obstacle, and then she stopped and ducked down, dropping herself nearly flat onto the rooftop. Heart thudding in her chest, she lifted her chin and glanced across at the balcony that was her intended destination.

  There was someone already there. They were hiding, and hiding well, but Emily’s trained eye saw the movement, and now she saw the man as clear as if he was standing out in the open. He was nothing but a shadow, but he was wearing a hood and… yes, a mask, too. Of course. A lookout. He hadn’t signaled yet, which meant he hadn’t seen her.

  Emily breathed a sigh of relief.

  Well, no matter, she thought. He could be taken out, too…

  Although…

  She re-examined her proposed route. It was no good. While it would keep her well hidden from the cemetery and the men working below, she would be in plain sight of the high balcony and the lookout.

  She’d be seen.

  In fact—

  Emily froze, slowing her breathing by instinct, willing herself to vanish into the shadows, to become just part of the roof, hidden in the night, a bundle of nothing.

  The lookout stood behind a pillar, but he appeared to be—no, he was—looking straight at her, the moonlight betraying his presence as it glinted off his mask.

  Now she’d been seen. He would alert his friends any second, the element of surprise a fading memory. They’d be ready and waiting, and even though she was up for the fight, the addition of the lookout—and who knew how many others might be lurking in the empty buildings, unseen—the odds didn’t feel quite as certain any longer.

  There was nothing for it. She had to leave. She was Empress of the Isles. She shouldn’t have been here in the first place, and she certainly couldn’t die here.

  As soon as the lookout turned…

  The seconds felt like minutes as they ticked past in Emily’s mind as she lay on the rooftop, not daring to move, watching the lookout. He hadn’t moved either. Nor had he signaled his friends. Perhaps he was unsure. Perhaps, like her, he was waiting, counting time, wanting to be sure.

  And then he was gone, having retreated into the shadows in a blink of an eye. Probably on his way down to his friends, through the empty house, to tell them about the spy on the roof.

  Emily let out a long, hot breath, and decided to call it a night. There were other ways of investigating the grave robbers. More official ways. She felt suddenly stupid and suddenly afraid of the terrible risk she’d been prepared to take.

  She made a new decision—to retreat to the safety of Dunwall Tower. In the morning she’d send a patrol of the City Watch out to investigate, and she’d ask Corvo if his spy network had heard or seen anything strange.

  Backing up on her elbows, she edged into the shadowed gables, the cemetery and the grave robbers vanishing from her eyeline as they continued their silent, criminal work. She expected an alarm, a shout, but none came.

  Yet.

  Emily turned, and headed for home.

  3

  NEW MERCANTILE DISTRICT, DUNWALL

  8th Day, Month of Darkness, 1851

  “Restrict the Restless Hands, which quickly becomes the workmates of the Outsider. Unfettered by honest labor, they rush to sordid gain, vain pursuits, and deeds of violence. Of what value are the hands that steal and kill and destroy?”

  — THE THIRD STRICTURE

  Excerpt from a work detailing one of the Seven Strictures

  Corvo Attano slid into the deep shadow cast by the wide fluted columns that formed the front of the balcony. He watched the rooftop to his right, waiting patiently as Emily Kaldwin slowly crawled backward on her belly, disappearing out of sight. If all went as he hoped, she’d decided to be cautious and head back to Dunwall Tower.

  She’d done well—Corvo was the first to admit that fact. In the last few months, Emily had started exploring the city by night, sneaking out of Dunwall Tower to watch her citizens go about their business, watch as the city was rebuilt, restored, repaired. Every night, she’d pushed farther and farther out. Tonight was the first time she’d come so far north, crossing the old city wall and entering the New Mercantile District.

  Good, he thought. This was all very, very good. No—better than that—she was superb as she put to practical use a decade and a half of training, their sessions hidden behind the Tower walls.

  During her nocturnal outings, Corvo had followed her, keeping his presence a secret as he trailed the young Empress, watching as she darted around rooftops with a speed and agility even he found impressive.

  The way Corvo saw it, he was obliged to follow her, two separate, individual duties calling on him to keep her in sight, to keep her safe. As Royal Protector, it was his official duty—the Empress sneaking out, alone, into the city at night would give the Imperial Court a fever fit.

  And as a father he had another duty—one to keep his daughter safe, while allowing Emily to stretch herself, to find out what she could and couldn’t do, to explore the limits of her abilities, her ingenuity.

  She was safe enough, of course—he’d seen enough to prove that. Yet he could never really relax while she was out. The tension of being constantly alert, ready to step in but hopefully never needing to, made the nights exhausting.

  He’d trained her well, though, even if he said so himself. There was no mistaking it. In Emily he had the perfect pupil, willing not just to learn, but to be pushed. Nearly fifteen years they’d been training—fifteen years of study and practice in the subtle arts of stealth, of hand-to-hand combat. Of protection and defense. They’d come a long, long way since the old days, when Jessamine was on the throne. When he and Emily, so young, had dueled with wooden sticks in those long, glorious Dunwall summers.

  How times change. And now the Empress had what she wanted—the skills and abilities she craved in the determination to cut her own path through history, not just as Empress, but as defender, protector.

  Of that, Corvo couldn’t have been more proud.

  As for the fact that Emily remained entirely unaware, oblivious to the fact that her protector was shadowing her… well, indeed, she was good. There was no denying it. It was just that he was better, a trained assassin with years more experience.

  Not to mention a certain set of skills that Emily could never dream he possessed…

  But tonight he had let himself be seen. Just a little, just enough—not to s
care her off, but to force her to take a more cautious approach. Except she had been scared off, which in a way was a shame, because Corvo wanted to see what she was capable of.

  There were five intruders down in the cemetery, and Corvo was sure she could have taken them all on, and won. Except…

  Except he wasn’t quite so sure, was he?

  Or… actually, no, scratch that. It was he who wasn’t ready, not yet. He was still Royal Protector, she was still the Empress, and while she was clearly eager for action and adventure, an escape from what he could plainly see were the stuffy, occasionally suffocating duties of state, he wasn’t ready to let her risk herself to that great a degree.

  Not quite yet.

  Pleased that Emily was out of the picture, Corvo returned his attention to the cemetery below. The porticoed balcony on which he hid was an extravagance, more like a platform from which official proclamations would be made, rather than just a cool place to sip hot tea in the afternoons when the square would have been full of life.

  He’d been up here before, several times in fact. This had been a small town, clinging to the side of Dunwall so closely it was practically a part of it, despite the separation dictated by the cut of the city wall. It was a town—now a district—of merchants, rich old middle-class families not really part of Dunwall’s aristocratic society, and probably quite happy to stay independent, plying their trades and building their family fortunes up here, just outside the walls.

  And then the Rat Plague had come. As in the city proper, the Rat Plague changed everything. The town had emptied, the houses here in the square and in the surrounding streets abandoned. What had become of the traders and their families, Corvo wasn’t entirely sure. Most probably shipped out of Dunwall as soon as the Lord Regent had taken power, wary of his plans for the city’s close—but separated—neighbors.

  Good for them. There were plenty of other, safer, places to make a living, make a life.