Dishonored--The Corroded Man Page 6

  This particular slaughterhouse was an auxiliary facility, designed to handle overflow from other factories in the Greaves Lighting Oil company empire. Located at the far eastern side of Slaughterhouse Row, it was separated from other factories by a couple of streets of warehousing, and had been shuttered by the company a couple of years after the restoration of the Empress, the company focusing efforts on new, more modern facilities closer to the harbor mouth in the west.

  As a result, the auxiliary slaughterhouse was intact but, without maintenance, subject to slow decay. The roof leaked, which meant that at this time of year particularly, the factory floor itself was practically ankle deep in water. As Galia walked up to the Boss, she glanced down at that floor through the picture windows, the water as still as glass, mirror-like.

  Getting into the slaughterhouse hadn’t been a problem. Galia and Rinaldo still had plenty of contacts, and finding a facility large enough to meet the Boss’s exacting requirements actually hadn’t been that hard. Surrounded as it was by tall warehouses—themselves likewise closed, disused, abandoned—the reformed gang of Whalers practically had half a square mile of the city all to themselves. The chance of discovery was slim, and there was ample space for their operation.

  Whatever that operation was. The Boss hadn’t exactly been clear on the matter—not yet. He outlined tasks one by one, as they came up. For now, Galia was happy to obey, and Rinaldo was happy to follow her orders and pass them on to the others.

  Altogether, the new Whalers numbered eight—Galia and Rinaldo the only members of the original gang, the only ones who had actually known Daud. The others they had recruited from the docks and the nearby taverns—the Lucky Jim, the Seven of Bells. Some claimed to have been members of other street gangs, back in the day, but Galia suspected that people said a lot of things late at night in the dockside watering holes. With the Boss funding the operation, however, money bought loyalty.

  But for Galia, loyalty was a more… complex concept. The Boss gave the orders, and Galia followed them, but she wasn’t paid in money. She was paid in something else entirely. Something far, far more valuable.

  Something she had yearned to have, for fifteen years…

  Except now it was time for answers. Whatever the Boss was doing, it was time for him to trust her, to fill her in on his plans. She was the leader of the Whalers, after all. The Boss depended on her to carry out his tasks. True enough, he paid her with what she most desired, but, after the little encounter at the cemetery, things were becoming more complicated.

  He needed to know about what had happened, and she needed to know what the plan was, the endgame. So Galia walked up to the Boss and stood, legs apart, arms folded, cocking her head and regarding his back.

  He was still wrapped in the heavy military greatcoat, the edges caked with dried mud, the wide-brimmed hat, the thick scarf, and snow goggles still firmly in place. It was hot and stuffy in the control room, the evaporation of the rainwater down on the factory floor making the whole building humid and covering the control room walls with condensation. The liquid streaked large red-brown Vs down the filthy walls. The Boss had to be baking inside his strange getup.

  “Listen, Boss,” Galia said, “we have a problem.”

  She waited for a response, but none came. He didn’t move, didn’t even appear to be breathing. Rinaldo was right—it was like there was nothing there, underneath the heavy clothes. It was no wonder the others didn’t want to come near him. The Boss was like something out of a children’s bedtime story.

  Beware the monster, the bogeyman.

  Galia sighed and moved to one of the consoles. She idly trailed the fingers of one hand over the switches and buttons, through the dust, flicking a couple, pulling a larger lever. Nothing happened, of course. The console—like the rest of the slaughterhouse—was dead. Just to the side of the console there was a socket where a whale oil tank would normally be inserted, providing power. The socket was empty, the shutter hanging by one hinge, the magnetic coupler inside, designed to hold the tank in place, missing entirely. The slaughterhouse had been empty for a long time, and chances were, thought Galia, that her gang weren’t the first people to break in. There probably wasn’t even any wiring left underneath the consoles, the valuable metal stripped out of the cables and sold on the black market years ago.

  Galia steeled herself as she moved along the console, then she turned back to the Boss. She stood beside him and watched for a moment, her eyes drawn to his red glass goggles. There was still no sound, no movement, not even the rise and fall of his chest.

  “I said, we have a problem…”

  Then the Boss cocked his head, the movement tiny but enough to make Galia jump. Immediately she cursed herself for being startled so easily. She stepped toward him, her hands curling into fists on her hips.

  “Listen! We were seen—”

  “Did you get what I wanted?” the Boss asked. He spoke slowly, as if he was taking a moment to choose the exact words to use, like he was speaking to someone from a distant land who knew another tongue.

  Galia paused, and then she said, “Yes. We got six. The men are unloading the wagon now.”

  The Boss turned his face to her. She raised an eyebrow, and found herself staring at her own reflection in the huge, red glass goggles.

  “I asked for seven.”

  “Yeah, well, six is what you’ve got.” Galia took another step forward. “But will you listen to me? We were seen.”

  The Boss’s head tilted the other way.

  “Seen?”

  “Yes, thank you, seen. I chased him off.”

  “Then it is no matter.”

  “No,” Galia said, “it matters all right. Listen, he was, I don’t know… Void-touched. He could use transversal, like me. Back in the day, that was a power that Daud gave to me, and now you’ve given it back. How did this other guy have it? How is that possible? Who else knows secrets like ours?”

  “It is no matter,” the Boss said. “He is just one man, and one man can do nothing.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. And how do you know he’s just one? There might be more of them, out there.”

  The Boss turned to Galia, and she found herself taking a step backward.

  “Tell me, Galia Fleet, are you happy? Are you satisfied?”

  “I… what? Happy? What kind of question is that?”

  “A simple one,” the Boss said. “I have promised you power. I have given you a taste of that which you desired the most. The gifts you once had, the gifts granted to you by the man Daud. You have these again.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “You speak of him often, this Daud. He was a great man, was he not?”

  Galia felt the heat rise in her face. “Yes. Yes he was. He was a great leader.” She paused. “Though,” she said, “I think he was troubled, in the last days I knew him.”

  “And what of the others?”

  Galia shook her head. Over the past few days she had got used to the Boss’s tendency to go off on tangents—but here? Now? This wasn’t the time or place. She had a feeling they were in trouble, surely, and yet the Boss seemed unconcerned.

  “What others?” she asked.

  “You were once a formidable force. Yes, the Whalers.” The Boss nearly hissed the name of the gang. “Led by Daud, followed by Billie Lurk and by Thomas and by Rinaldo and by… you. Galia Fleet, the novice, the acolyte. The learner.”

  Galia gulped down a breath. How did the Boss know all this? Yes, it was true, she had been a novice in the Whalers. But… so what? She’d been the only one who’d tried to keep the gang alive, after they’d all gone, vanished or dead—Daud, Billie, Thomas. All of them. Now it was just her and Rinaldo. When she told this to the Boss, her voice was louder, harder than she had intended.

  There was a pause, a beat, and then the Boss laughed. It was harsh, somewhere between a cough and chuckle. Galia wondered again what was beneath the coat and hat and goggles. The Boss was a big man.

&nb
sp; And he sounded… sick.

  “And now the learner is the leader,” he said, his laugh fading. “Remember that, Galia. Remember what I have done for you. Remember what I have promised you.”

  He turned back to the plate-glass windows. Galia moved to his side and looked down at the factory floor. The wagon had been unloaded and moved, the grim cargo sitting in a line between two of the huge whale oil vats.

  “I’m… I’m sorry,” Galia found herself saying, hardly realizing she was saying it all. She felt hot, dizzy. “We could only get six. We were interrupted before the seventh could be raised.” She glanced sideways at the Boss.

  He gave a small nod. “Six will suffice. You have done well, Galia.”

  Praise. A tiny, tiny scrap of praise, but it was enough. Galia felt her heart thud, her head grow light.

  She had done well. She had pleased him.

  Which meant… payment. Another taste of power.

  The Boss seemed to sense her anticipation. He nodded again.

  “Soon,” he said.

  Galia nodded, and turned back to the window. The hunger gnawed at her stomach and she wanted to be sick, but she focused instead on the view of the slaughterhouse, pushing aside the craving, the desire. The men were gone, she noticed.

  “According to the map you gave us, that cemetery was in the heart of an old town that used to be outside the city walls—an enclave once populated by merchants and bankers.” She nodded at the line of coffins far below, sitting on the wet factory floor. “The graves belonged to rich families. They’ll be missed. We didn’t have much time to clean up after ourselves. Someone will find the disturbance, and then we’ll have the whole City Watch after us.”

  “It is not important.”

  Galia shook her head. “You keep saying that, but it’s not just the City Watch.” She turned to face him, the heat rising in her chest, in her neck. “I told you, we were seen by someone else—someone who can transverse, like I can.”

  And then… the boss laughed again, this time his shoulders shaking. Galia could only stare at him. What could he find so funny, so amusing? They’d risked a lot to drag six coffins to him—not to mention the hours of labor it had been for the men, working in the wet and the dark.

  Enough!

  “What are we doing? What’s it all for?” she asked. “You want our help—no, you need our help! For what? To rob graves? Is that all?”

  The Boss turned again to Galia and this time it was he who took a step forward. To her credit, Galia didn’t move, her feet firmly planted on the floor. And one hand hovering over the knife hanging from her belt.

  “And I ask you again, Galia Fleet,” the Boss said. “Are you not happy? Are you not pleased?” He spread his hands. “I have given you what you wanted, haven’t I? You have the power you crave, the power to transverse the geometry of the world, to blink from one place to another. This is what you wanted, what you desired, what you craved. Ever since your old master, that man Daud, abandoned you.”

  Galia pursed her lips, but relaxed the hand over her knife.

  “I have helped you,” the Boss continued. “This is just the start, Galia, just the start. With my help you can rebuild the Whalers—look, you have started already. And with my help, the city will learn to fear you again. It is you who command them. Small steps, small steps, but ones that will lead soon to great things.”

  Galia’s lips parted, her breathing fast, shallow, as she took in the vision the Boss was sharing. Yes, small steps… but it was just the start. The Whalers were back.

  And she was in command.

  She found herself lost in his red eyes, the world spinning around her as she fell…

  The Boss reached out a gloved hand and touched Galia’s chin. She felt a spark, like static, and when she blinked she saw blue light dance across her vision. Her mind cleared.

  She felt the power surge within her.

  “And there is more to come, Galia,” the Boss said. “Much, much more.”

  He turned away, leaving her standing, breathless, on the tips of her toes. He moved back to the plate-glass window and looked down at the factory floor.

  “You have talents, Galia,” he said. “Wild talents. They have been growing, nurtured inside you. With my help, we can bring these talents to the fore.”

  Galia found herself nodding.

  “You have been sleeping, Galia Fleet. Years have gone by, years burned at the Golden Cat.” The Boss raised his arms, as if to embrace the view. “Isn’t this better than guard duty at a brothel? Trust me, Galia, you are destined for great things—and I can help you realize that destiny.”

  Galia rocked on her heels. Yes. He was right. She had been asleep. No, worse. She had been dead. Fifteen years—fifteen years had passed since Daud vanished, and over those years she had done nothing. Nothing but rot at the Golden Cat, pickling herself with Old Dunwall Whiskey, or sometimes Orbum Rum if a shipment came in from Karnaca, pretending Daud would just walk in the door, one day, one day…

  So yes, he would help her. He would give her what she wanted—

  No. What she deserved.

  Power. She wanted it, and she would have it.

  Now.

  Galia’s head felt light, and she felt hot, hot in the stuffy, humid factory office. Yet the Boss just stood there, ridiculous in his heavy winter clothing, clothing more suited for the snows of Tyvia than the damp of Dunwall.

  Yes. Yes. The Boss was a fool. A fool who spoke in riddles, who thought he could tell Galia what to do.

  Well, no more. If he wouldn’t talk, then he would give her all the powers he promised.

  And if he didn’t, then he would bleed.

  Galia tightened her grip on the handle of her long knife, the knife she didn’t even remember pulling from its sheath. The blade was light, well balanced, the perfect assassin’s tool. And she was the same—older, yes, but as balanced as her blade, as ready to do the work for which she had been born.

  Lifting herself onto the pads of her feet, she lowered her head, ready to spring. As ever, he stood, his broad back to her, his peripheral vision obscured by the ridiculous hat.

  Let’s see what riddles he will speak, with the edge of my blade hard against his windpipe, she thought. He would yield. She would make him.

  There was a moment, a pause between heartbeats, where Galia saw herself reflected in the plate glass of the factory office, even as she moved forward, silently, ready to force the madman to his knees. The Boss was there too, in the reflection, but… something was wrong.

  It happened in an instant, in the blink of an eye, as Galia found herself groping for thin air. Suddenly his reflection was behind her in the window. She wheeled around, all hope of surprise gone, and swung the blade. It was a clumsy move, but usually an effective one—one born of instinct, of years working as one of Daud’s Whalers, in the hope of moving from novice to master, to be closer to him, to share more in the power he held.

  Again Galia stumbled forward, expecting to meet a body with a blade embedded in its neck. But the knife sliced through air.

  She turned. The Boss was on her other side, standing a yard or more away.

  With a growl of annoyance, Galia moved again.

  And met air.

  She looked up. Now the Boss was behind her, on the other side of the factory office.

  Transversing, of course! Two could play at that.

  Galia focused and picked a new position, transporting herself the short distance nearly instantly, appearing three yards behind where she had been standing, ready to take the Boss by surprise.

  He was gone.

  There was a rattle from outside, beyond the windows. Galia turned to look, and saw her target out on the iron latticework of the platform that circled the control room. She focused, blinked, reappeared where the Boss had been, but she was alone again. She looked around, looked down. There. Below. He was on the slaughterhouse floor, striding toward the line of coffins.

  Galia vaulted the iron rail, still grippin
g the knife. As she fell, she transversed, and reappeared on the factory floor in a crouch.

  Alone. Again.

  She stood and moved forward, glancing around. The factory floor was a huge space, empty save for the whale oil vats and the six coffins. The gang had gone back to their makeshift quarters at the back of the building. Ahead of her stood the tall set of double doors, as high as the slaughterhouse and nearly as wide, big enough to make room for the precious cargo from a whaling ship, docked on the river outside. The frame holding the whale would be swung in by crane arms located high up in the slaughterhouse ceiling, until it was suspended over the huge vats.

  Galia spun around. The need for caution was gone. She kicked at the inch-deep water, sending a plume of spray into the air.

  As it fell back to the floor, the Boss stepped forward, appearing out of the air. He was close—too close, and Galia knew it. He struck her with a fist in her stomach. She doubled over, heading for the floor, then she transversed again to appear behind him. Winded, she summoned her strength to strike out—

  Only she had no target. Instead, a boot caught her thigh, sending her sprawling sideways. She splashed in the water, the sudden cold shocking. Quickly she stood, swung right with the knife, but the Boss was out of reach. She lunged forward, dropped to one knee, and punched out with her left fist. This time the punch connected, but it had no effect. The Boss swung down, striking her forearm.

  There was a crack, pain shooting up Galia’s arm. Quickly, she transversed to the other side of the factory, as far away from the Boss as possible, and fell to the floor. There she lay on her side, the pain in her arm and her leg almost too much to bear.

  There was a splash. She looked up.

  The Boss was in front of her.

  She raised herself up, but she was slow, too slow. Aside from the pain, she felt… weak. Her limbs, her whole body, felt like lead, her head filled with cotton wool and whale blubber. He stood in front of her, looking down with those red glass eyes.