Dishonored--The Corroded Man Page 5

  The merchants had gone, but their dead had remained. The garden cemetery, a place of quiet contemplation and remembrance, had been abandoned along with the houses, its deceased inhabitants oblivious to the slow creep of decay that surrounded their final resting place.

  The gang was working on the sixth grave now. The rain had settled into a mist-like drizzle which did little to hide the sounds of their shovels and picks as they sliced into the damp, stony ground.

  Grave robbers. The thought sickened Corvo. Given the wealthy merchant families who once lived here, the private cemetery was likely rich pickings. Theft from the grave, from the dead, was desecration, a total disregard for the families, for relatives and lovers taken away too soon. This wasn’t something he could let pass.

  Corvo readied himself. The task looked like an easy one—easier now as one of the thieves, apparently bored of the labor in the cemetery itself, wandered back to the covered wagon. He would be the first. All Corvo had to do was blink to the wagon, behind the thief, and strike. From there, the overgrown cemetery would provide plenty of cover, allowing him to reach the others without needing to call on his powers again.

  It would require just a few moments to take the rest of the gang out—all, he hoped, without a single shout that might attract Emily’s attention as she scampered away over the rooftops.

  Corvo concentrated. He felt the familiar pins-and-needles sensation crawl over his left hand, on the back of which the Mark of the Outsider glowed with the electricity of the Void. Corvo focused, picked his target, was ready to step swiftly across the impossible distance between his present location and the street, when—

  He ducked down, the tingle in his hand flashing into a hot, harsh burn as he was forced to release the gathering power. Hiding against the front of the balcony, he peered out between the small, sculpted pillars in front of him.

  The grave robber by the wagon, restless and bored, had moved into the moonlight and turned around, and was facing Corvo’s direction. Corvo had caught himself just in time—if he had blinked then, the man would have seen him instantly.

  But there was something else, something that made Corvo’s pulse thud in his throat, his own breathing suddenly loud behind his mask.

  The grave robber was a Whaler.

  There was no mistaking it. High black boots strapped with brown buckled leather, heavy black gloves with cuffs folded back at the elbow. A form-fitting leather coat with characteristic short sleeves, the front crisscrossed with a wide belt from which hung pouches. At the hip, a long knife, the gloved hand hovering just a few inches from the handle.

  Over the head, a tight hood that shone damply in the moonlight, and covering the face, the mask—two large, circular eyeglasses set in thick rubber. Below, the nose and mouth covered by a protruding, cylindrical respirator designed to protect the wearer from the noxious fumes of a whale slaughterhouse.

  Corvo shrank down into the shadows, willing himself to vanish into the darkness, all the while, a single thought running through his head.

  Whalers. Whalers. This man is a Whaler, this man is a Whaler, this man is a Whaler.

  Could it be possible that they were back?

  Corvo wracked his brain. The fortunes of the Dunwall street gangs had waxed and waned since the fall of Hiram Burrows, the Lord Regent. Some gangs had been taken down, worn away by a newly organized—and reinvigorated—City Watch. Word was that others had relocated wholesale and intact, trying to establish themselves elsewhere in the Empire, out on islands and in cities where things might be a little easier for them. Over the years, Corvo had even heard whispers that some of the Dunwall gangs—or members of them, anyway—had set up shop as far away as Karnaca, the capital city of the southern island of Serkonos. Corvo’s birthplace.

  Some gangs had vanished altogether, their membership evaporating. That included the Whalers, although the group hadn’t been just any street gang. They were different—they were assassins. Highly effective, highly trained killers. They had a special gift, granted to them by their leader, Daud. A man who, like Corvo, had been marked by the Outsider, the brand granting them both the ability to call on the power of the Void, and wield the supernatural.

  Daud. Assassin. Murderer. The man who had killed Jessamine, forever changing the course of the Empire. Forever changing the course of Corvo’s life. Jessamine had been his lover; Emily was their child. Daud had destroyed it all, and it had taken all the willpower Corvo had been able to muster not to kill the man outright. Instead, Daud had been banished from the city, on pain of death should he ever return.

  Fifteen long, long years ago.

  Fifteen years Corvo had spent wondering why he hadn’t given in, hadn’t killed Daud when he’d had the chance. Perhaps he should have. Daud’s crime deserved it—but then, perhaps there was a part of Corvo that wanted Daud alive. Living in fear of the Royal Protector’s terrible wrath, should they ever cross paths again.

  Because perhaps living in fear was a fate worse than death.

  Perhaps.

  Afterward, Daud’s group had splintered. One of his former aides, Thomas, had apparently taken control, at least for a time, until he too disappeared. Dead, most likely. Whatever became of the rest of the gang, nobody knew, despite the best efforts of Corvo and his ring of royal spies to try to track them down.

  Now, a decade and a half later, here he was, watching a group of Whalers as they robbed a graveyard. Corvo peered again at the one by the wagon—despite the clarity afforded by the lenses in his own mask, it was a little too dark to quite see the color of the Whaler’s tunic. As far as Corvo could tell, it looked gray—a novice. If they were all of that class, perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to take them all out.

  He shifted his attention to the others, watching as they worked in the weak yellow lamplight. They were hooded, yes, but…

  Corvo frowned. The others weren’t wearing the respirators. Instead, they merely had their faces hidden by kerchiefs tied behind heads, and while they were all hooded, their clothing wasn’t a uniform as such. Which meant they weren’t Whalers.

  He raised himself up to get a better look, glancing cautiously over at the wagon. To his surprise, the Whaler—the actual Whaler—had gone.

  Corvo ducked around a pillar, careful to keep himself in the shadows as he cast his gaze around the square. The other men continued digging, oblivious to the fact that their leader had gone—but where?

  He had a good view of the wagon, and the Whaler wasn’t anywhere near it. He wasn’t walking back toward the cemetery gates either. There was plenty of cover beyond, but the space between the gates and the wagon was open and well lit by the moon.

  There was a sound from behind Corvo.

  Infinitesimally small.

  A tick, a click, metal on metal.

  The sound of a switchblade.

  Corvo spun around. Impossibly, the Whaler was standing behind him on the balcony, knife in one hand, the other outstretched, fingers splayed. Now spotted, the assassin lost no time and darted forward, feinting to the left with the blade, then cutting right. Corvo jumped, curving his body away from the blade as it sliced through the air.

  Then he stepped forward, his hand already pulling the unique folding sword from his belt. With a flick of the wrist, the blade snapped open. Corvo brought it up, ready to parry the next attack.

  The next attack didn’t come. Corvo lowered the sword, just a little, as he stared at the empty space in front of him.

  The Whaler had gone, again.

  Corvo turned, running on instinct, sword swinging. Behind him, the assassin moved easily out of reach before flipping their knife around, holding the blade parallel to his forearm, then lunging in for the attack.

  Adrenaline coursed through Corvo’s veins. He took a half step backward, then focused ahead, beyond his attacker. There, on the other side of the square, was a building with big, black windows and heavy stone ledges.

  Corvo closed his eyes, felt a wind that didn’t exist in his world, then opene
d his eyes again.

  He’d made it… just. He was hanging from the window ledge by his fingertips, his folding sword awkwardly gripped against the building’s stone. He pulled up, lifting himself onto the narrow ledge, then turned, figuring out where he was, what his routes and his options might be.

  From the corner of his eye he saw the assassin vanish from the big balcony in a swirl of black shadows caught in the moonlight. Corvo glanced down, and blinked to a lower balcony located to his left, on another side of the square. Then he did it again.

  And again…

  And again, up to a rooftop, down to a wide copper gutter that creaked under the sudden materialization of his weight.

  Down again, on the street now, behind the wagon, hidden from view of the cemetery robbers, then back up to the columned balcony from which he had started.

  He dove into the shadows in a forward roll, then spun, flattening himself against the cold stone by the archway that led inside the empty home. He crabbed toward it and slipped inside, the darkness there like a black liquid. His chest heaved with effort. So many blinks in such a short space of time was draining, and the Mark of the Outsider throbbed on his hand.

  Corvo hadn’t brought any vials of Addermire Solution with him, the magical blue elixir that—according to its maker, Dr. Alexandria Hypatia of the Addermire Institute in Karnaca—revitalized both the body and the mind. It was an improvement on the old health elixir developed by Sokolov and Piero’s Spiritual Remedy, if only because the Addermire Solution had the same restorative qualities as both of those potions combined. That meant less to carry but, if he was honest, he hadn’t thought he’d ever need to use the stuff again.

  Perhaps it was time to rethink that.

  Keeping to the edge of the arch, he peered around it, his strength slowly returning. He needed to rest, if he could.

  He was in luck. There was no sign of his pursuer, no movement, no swirling shadows on rooftops, on ledges, in doorways.

  He had lost him.

  Moving back to the balcony, Corvo ducked down, ears straining for any sound. There were voices now, from below, in the cemetery. Reaching the balcony edge, he peered again through the small columns, and breathed a sigh of relief.

  The Whaler stood in the middle of the cemetery, pointing with one hand, the switchblade in the other, still glinting in the moonlight. Around him, the robbers were starting to hurry, pulling the last coffin out of the ground and racing it over to the wagon, shoving it carelessly into the back with the others. While they did that, the Whaler remained where he was, looking around, knife ready. Corvo ducked down a little more as the Whaler turned in his direction, but there was no indication that he had been seen again.

  One of the others called out. Corvo couldn’t make out the words, but the meaning was clear. Confirming his suspicion, the Whaler ran over to the wagon and, finally putting the switchblade away, was helped into the back. At the front, one of the men mounted the seat and took up the reins. He gave them a flick, and the wagon jerked into motion, the horse protesting as it was forced to speed away from the scene of the crime. The wheels rattled harshly on the cobbles.

  Corvo watched them go. He should have followed them. He wanted to follow them, but he couldn’t—not tonight. He’d worn himself out with the blink chase, and even if he got back to the Tower to grab a supply of Addermire Solution, it would be too close to dawn to head back out.

  And besides, where would he go?

  Corvo sighed in frustration. Already, a thousand thoughts crowded his mind.

  The Whalers are back, they are active, they are planning something—why else would they rob graves, carting coffins off to who knows where? More important than that, if the Whalers were back then so, apparently, was their leader—the man Corvo thought was gone forever.

  The way the Whaler moved, transversing around the square to attack him—there was only one way to get power like that. There was only one man who was able to share it with the gang.

  Daud.

  He was back, gathering his forces.

  But the assassin who had been supervising the operation at the cemetery, who had attacked him—he wasn’t Daud. Corvo was sure of that. The assassin had been smaller, slimmer. The body language, the movements, they were different from what Corvo remembered.

  Then again, it had been a long time. Fifteen years. Memory had a way of playing tricks.

  Corvo stood. The cart was gone, the sound of the wheels, and of the hooves of the horse, slowly fading in the city. Then he glanced to the east, where already the sky was bruising orange and purple in a gap between the patchy rain clouds. Dawn approached, and with it, his duties to the Empress. He only hoped she had gotten back to Dunwall Tower and hadn’t stuck around, perhaps witnessing the events of the night.

  Corvo headed back home, already running a plan through his mind. In the morning he would send out his spies and begin the search. He would find Daud, and he would discover what he was doing back in Dunwall.

  4

  GREAVES AUXILIARY WHALE SLAUGHTERHOUSE 5, SLAUGHTERHOUSE ROW, DUNWALL

  8th Day, Month of Darkness, 1851

  “With this lucrative turn of events, the number of slaughterhouses quadrupled, and the demand for fresh whales increased proportionately. Many districts immediately adjacent to what was suddenly known as Slaughterhouse Row began to change as families moved away to avoid the industrial fumes and offal runoff produced by the processing plants. Crime grew overnight, forcing the City Watch to redouble its efforts against Dunwall’s gangs.”

  — SLAUGHTERHOUSE ROW

  Excerpt from a book on Dunwall city districts

  As soon as the wagon clattered through the street-side loading doors, Galia jumped from the back, pulling back her hood and lifting her Whaler’s mask up and off her head by the respirator. The bloody thing was hotter than she remembered, but the rubbery, chalky smell of the air filter, the feel of the seal around her face sucking at her skin, were long-dormant memories brought instantly to mind, like a long-forgotten song from childhood suddenly remembered word for word, as though no time had passed at all.

  Galia smiled. Those were memories—feelings—she very much enjoyed having back. Because she was a Whaler once more—and more than that, she was now the leader.

  The loading door crashed shut behind her as she walked past the wagon, out onto the vast factory floor of the old whale slaughterhouse. She thought to rebuke her men for the noise they were making, but there was no time for that now. Mask swinging in one hand, the fingers of the other running through her damp, greasy hair, she headed past the big, empty oil vats set into the factory floor in a series of long, parallel rows, and made for the iron stairway that wound up to a series of platforms and galleries overlooking the main workspace.

  The job had been a success, but there was a problem—a problem the boss needed to know about.

  “Hey, hey, Galia, my sweetest! You’re back in good time. You bring back the goodies?”

  She paused and looked up to see Rinaldo rattling down the stairs toward her, a grin plastered wide on his face, his yellowed teeth bright against his dark skin. She frowned. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Galia glanced at her old friend, his thick, curly black hair chopped so roughly it stuck up in great tufts all over his scalp, but didn’t answer him, instead heading straight up the stairs, brushing past his shoulder.

  Rinaldo turned, hands outstretched.

  “Hey, did we get what we wanted or did we not?” The grin on his face flickered then went out as he watched Galia’s back.

  She paused at the point where the iron stairway turned ninety degrees, curling up to the next level. She leaned over the rail and pointed down at the wagon, where the others were milling around, watching the other two.

  “Tell the men to unload the wagon,” she said, then she lifted her eyes up, indicating the control room above. “Is he still up there?”

  Rinaldo dropped his arms and laughed, but the laugh didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, yeah, th
e Boss? He hasn’t moved a muscle since you left. Been staring out the windows this whole time. I tell ya, I haven’t been in there, but I’ve felt him watching me the whole bloody time.”

  “Fine,” Galia said. She turned, heading up the next round of stairs. “I need to talk to him. Nobody is to disturb us, do you understand?”

  “Hey, hey, my girl,” Rinaldo said, “trust me, nobody wants to go near that guy, and that includes yours truly. Is he even a man underneath all that?”

  She could hear it in Rinaldo’s voice, buried in the humor and loud, confident tone. Something else. Something wavering, cracking. His last question wasn’t entirely a joke.

  Galia licked her lips and said, “Just get the wagon unloaded.” And then she disappeared up the next flight of steps, taking them two at a time. As she reached the control room door, she could hear Rinaldo heading down, clapping his hands at the others, his voice echoing up from the cavernous factory floor.

  “Okay, you heard her. Get that wagon unloaded!”

  She reached for the door handle, and found herself pausing, her fingers brushing the cool brass of the knob. Then she shook her head, opened the door, and went in.

  Galia dumped her mask on one of the rusting, dirty consoles that lined the walls of the control room, and began peeling off her gloves. As Rinaldo said, the Boss—capital B—was still standing exactly where he had been when she left the slaughterhouse, what, hours ago. He stood with his back to the door, at the far end of the room, looking out through the plate-glass windows at the vast factory floor below.

  It seemed appropriate for the Whalers—the new Whalers—to be using an old slaughterhouse as a base. Galia liked the connection. The city was full of these factories, most located here, in Slaughterhouse Row. It wasn’t an individual street, despite the name, but a small district all of its own, nestled in a bay of the Wrenhaven River, where the stench of the whale oil refinement could go on without disturbing the city’s residents. Some of the slaughterhouses and refineries were still operational, but like large parts of the city’s industrial heart, a huge number had been mothballed, condemned to years of slumber as they lay in wait for new owners and new work to bring them back to life.