Dishonored--The Corroded Man Page 7

  Galia coughed and climbed to her feet. Then her thigh shot through with pain and she fell forward, back to the wet floor, her knees singing in agony as the joints slammed into the concrete. She coughed again, and dropped to her haunches, then to her backside, sitting in an inch of water, cradling her left arm across her chest, her thigh throbbing, her head spinning.

  “Enough,” she said, although she could hardly hear her own words over the ringing in her head. “Enough. I yield.”

  The Boss laughed, or maybe Galia just thought he did. Her head spun and she felt tired, so very, very tired. It was as though the more she used the power—the power that the Boss had granted her—the weaker she became. It wasn’t just the powers she couldn’t use, but her whole body, her strength evaporating with the slow rise of steam from the floor.

  Her gaze fell to the pooled water around her. She saw her own reflection, gently rippling, and that of the Boss towering above her.

  Of course. The reflections—first up in the control room, then down on the factory floor. Exactly as it was at the Golden Cat. The Boss could transverse, too, but his power was different. He traveled through reflections—mirrors, glass, the shine of water on the floor.

  And his powers didn’t seem to drain him.

  Galia tore her eyes from his reflection, feeling as if the red glass goggles were burning into her mind. There was a roaring sound in her head. Her lifted gaze came to rest on the row of six coffins that were lined up, near to where she had fallen. The men had brushed the earth from them, but they were still dirty, the grime of the ages clinging to their wooden frames. They hadn’t bothered to record who the graves had belonged to, or how long they had lain undisturbed. The Boss hadn’t specified that they should.

  All he wanted was the bodies.

  Seven of them.

  He had six.

  “What do you want them for?” Galia asked weakly, nodding at the boxes. At this, the Boss walked over to the row, his boots splashing in the water. As he reached the first one, he bent over and ran a gloved hand across the surface, first brushing the dirt away, then tracing the contours of the lid with his fingertips. He leaned in, bringing his hidden face close to the top of the box, a few inches of wood the only thing separating him from the mummified cadaver within. Galia thought she heard him sniff, loudly, but then she thought this was merely her imagination, too, so loud was the rush in her ears.

  “They are essential to me,” the Boss said, then he straightened up. “They are essential to us, my dear Galia, to us.”

  She sighed, dragging herself to her feet. Her leg throbbed from where he had kicked it, but it wasn’t broken. Nor her arm, but she knew it would hurt for a long time. More important, she wouldn’t be able to fight as she had been. She would need time to rest, to heal.

  “But what are we doing?” Galia demanded, practically yelling the question. “Who are you?”

  The Boss laughed, then he lifted his right hand. With his left, as Galia watched, he pulled his glove off. Beneath the heavy leather, his hand was wrapped in black, dirty bandages.

  Tossing the glove to the wet floor, the Boss began to unwrap the bandage, spiraling it around and around his hand and forearm until he held a long ribbon of mottled fabric—stained with blood or some kind of ointment, Galia couldn’t tell. Then she gasped as she realized that the blackened, charred bandage was entirely free, and what remained wasn’t more cloth, but the man’s skin—blackened and charred as well, flakes floating down like ash and drifting in the sticky air to rest on the water like tiny dried leaves.

  She had been right. He was sick, or injured, or both. The Boss curled his fist, sending more ash-like flakes drifting to the ground. Then he turned the hand around, showing Galia the crusted, burned back.

  Galia’s eyes went wide. The skin was black, but there was something else on it. It was like the echo of ink that remained on paper when a sheet was thrown into a fire—a delicate, black-on-black outline. A symbol, like an emblem.

  A mark. Two semicircles, bisected by a ray which sprang from a smaller circle at the center of the emblem. She knew that mark, that symbol. Daud had had one, and it was drawn on the weird shrines they had found scattered through the city. A relic, an echo of another time.

  The Mark of the Outsider.

  “My name is Zhukov,” the Boss said. “I am the Hero of Tyvia, and I am here to save the world.”

  5

  DUNWALL TOWER

  8th Day, Month of Darkness, 1851

  “In the capital city of Dunwall, each new Emperor is allowed to appoint a Royal Protector. This is far more than a trusted bodyguard. Much more revered than the hand-chosen guards defending Dunwall Tower or the food tasters, the Royal Protector is a court figure, given enormous latitude, who keeps constant company with the highest ruler in the known world.”

  — THE ROYAL PROTECTOR

  Excerpt from a historical record of

  government positions and ranks

  Corvo entered the throne room to find the others already waiting for him. As one, the group turned to watch as he entered, Emily herself sitting on the throne up on the dais, one leg crossed over the other, her chin resting on one hand while the fingers of the other drummed on the seat’s dull silver arm.

  As he reached the group, he gave the bow that was customary. Behind him, Corvo heard the great doors of the chamber slam shut. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that even the palace guards who were assigned to permanent duty on this side of the door had left, most likely at the express orders of the Empress herself.

  It was just the four of them. Corvo cast his eye around the group as they each bowed to him in return.

  Closest to the steps of the dais stood High Overseer Yul Khulan, the big, barrel-chested man with a shaved head, resplendent in his long red-velvet coat with high collar. Corvo hadn’t spent much time with Khulan, but he seemed a good man, even a kind one, and one fiercely loyal to the Empress while, at the same time, keeping his own position independent. After the fall of the Lord Regent, Khulan had been quick to form an alliance with the restored young Empress. He and Corvo had helped guide the young ruler on matters of state for nearly a decade, until Emily had reached an age where they both thought she was more than capable of striking out on her own.

  If only the High Overseer knew what a capable young woman—not to say, formidable duelist—the Empress truly was.

  Next to Khulan stood Jameson Curnow, young son of Geoff Curnow, the former Captain of the City Watch, now enjoying a long and happy retirement with his wife, thanks in no small part to Corvo himself, and Geoff Curnow’s niece—Jameson’s cousin—Callista, former caretaker for the young Emily.

  Jameson was smartly dressed in a brown jacket with black brocade across the front, the collar high, as was the current fashion among the aristocracy this season. His long bangs sat curved across his eyebrows, and as he gave Corvo a stiff nod, he brushed the hair to one side, out of the way. Then he glanced sideways at Emily—a look that wouldn’t be noticed by either the High Overseer or the Empress. As far as they were both concerned, Jameson was a young member of her inner circle, barely a year or two older than she was, and, thanks to the strong bond forged between Callista and Emily, a trusted advisor.

  Little did they know that Jameson Curnow fell under Corvo’s direct command. For Corvo was not only Royal Protector, he was Royal Spymaster, as well—the first to unify the two roles.

  And Jameson Curnow was his chief agent.

  Emily stood from the throne and stepped down onto the long red carpet, an elegant figure in a slim, formal black trouser suit, the white ruffled collar of the shirt beneath pulled high around her neck. Corvo gave her a nod and a smile, and locked his hands behind his back. She gave a tight-lipped smile back.

  He knew the meaning well, and having received the summons early that morning—shortly after he had returned to the Tower—he knew exactly what this meeting was about.

  “I believe I know what concerns you, Empress,” he said, giving a sma
ll bow. “The Captain of the City Watch reported the discovery to me this morning.” This wasn’t really a lie—when he’d got back, he had had one of his agents report to a City Watch patrolman, who had in turn informed his Captain, who then came to Corvo. “And,” he continued, “I’ve already sent out a couple of agents to take a closer look. I expect their report presently.”

  “Dark deeds in Dunwall!” Jameson said with a smile. He folded his arms and raised his eyebrows dramatically, pushing his bangs up his forehead. “Grave robbers at work, and it’s still seven months to the Fugue Feast. Somebody is getting ideas.”

  Corvo pursed his lips while High Overseer Khulan drew in a gasp, the big man clutching the lapels of his velvet coat in what appeared to be shock. Emily looked at Jameson with an eyebrow raised, then turned and led the way over to the side of the room, where a large table had been set out.

  “I only hope you are right, Mr. Curnow,” she said as the others followed. “But robbing the dead is still a heinous crime. Here.”

  The group gathered around the table, on which was spread a large map of Dunwall, secured at the corners with the ornate jeweled gold fish statuettes that normally graced the display cabinet on the other side of the room. Corvo allowed himself a small smile—the statuettes were periodic gifts from a place he knew well, a collective of smaller villages in Serkonos, the country of his birth. Although he’d grown up in Karnaca, the capital of Serkonos, until the death of his father he’d spent many happy hours wandering through the more rural areas between the cities along the coast, a region rightly famous for the quality of its fishing.

  As Emily spoke she pointed to a sector of the map, up north, just outside the line of the old city wall. Corvo nodded, tugging at his bottom lip, feigning quiet contemplation as she described what she had seen with her own eyes, but which, covering her nighttime activities, she now attributed to the Captain of the City Watch.

  When she was done, the High Overseer shivered, his olive skin coming out in gooseflesh, the knuckles of both hands bleaching white as he squeezed his lapels tighter and tighter.

  “Disgraceful business, Your Majesty,” he said. “Simply disgraceful. Who would do such a thing? To desecrate the graves of those who’ve faded from the world—those who have earned their escape from existence? Disgraceful.”

  Jameson nodded and leaned over the map, arms outstretched as he scanned the schematic of the city. His bangs fell across his face and through them he glanced again at Emily, and lowered his head.

  “I apologize for my earlier levity, Your Majesty,” he said, and Emily nodded in return. Then Jameson turned back to the map and stood tall. He pointed out several locations. “The city has many cemeteries and gravesites—some very public, like the mausoleum at the Abbey of the Everyman, and the main city cemetery, here.” He tapped the map at the corresponding locations. “But there must be, oh, a dozen others much like the old garden cemetery in the New Mercantile District… ah! Here, and here, that I know of, anyway.”

  Corvo watched Jameson as he pointed out the approximate locations. Emily grabbed two more fish statues from the side of the table and slid them across the map, marking the spots.

  “We need to find out who is behind this,” the Empress said. “I can’t—I won’t—have this happening in my capital city.”

  “Agreed,” Corvo said. “Let’s see what my agents bring back from the scene—perhaps the robbers left some clues. If the intention of the gang is to plunder graves for coin, or other valuables that may be buried, then it’s possible they’ll strike again. I’ll liaise with the City Watch—they can send patrols out to keep a close eye on every cemetery and graveyard.”

  “But then they’ll know we’re onto them,” Jameson said. He pointed again to the location of the crime. “They seem to have left quite a mess at the garden cemetery. This district is largely empty, but they’d have known somebody would spot it sooner or later.”

  “Fortunate that it was so soon, my friends,” the High Overseer said. He was looking at the map with a grimace on his face. “That area is, I understand, undergoing heavy restoration work. It could have gone unnoticed for days—weeks, even.” Then he shivered again, and clutched at the lapels of his coat. “Let us hope,” he said, in a quiet voice, “that these acts are being carried out by thieves seeking coin, as you say. Otherwise, I shudder to think at their purpose. Some cult of the Outsider, perhaps—though I hesitate to say his name aloud here in your company, Empress—enacting part of a foul plan. High heresy, indeed.”

  Khulan sighed and recomposed himself, then turned to Emily and gave a small bow.

  “Your City Watch should be praised for their diligent surveillance.” At that Corvo licked his lips and glanced up at her, gauging her reaction, but she was good, showing none. Instead, she simply bent down to peer at the map.

  Corvo turned to Jameson. “You’re right,” he agreed. “They will be alerted, but if we’re careful…” He nodded to the High Overseer. “Khulan, if you could spare some Overseers to help with the Watch, then if anyone notices the activity, they’ll assume the Abbey is preparing for funeral rites.”

  Khulan bowed. “Certainly, Royal Protector, the Abbey is at your disposal.”

  “Good idea.” Emily looked up. “We can focus our attention on these, the smaller plots.” She pointed out more locations on the map. “They’re unlikely to hit the Abbey Mausoleum or any public tombs, but we should still watch those as well.”

  Corvo nodded. “Yes, and I’ll send my agents out into the city, see if anyone is talking about grave robbers.”

  And more besides, he thought.

  “We should reach out to the families of those whose graves have been disturbed,” Emily said. “I can write to each, or grant an audience if they are in the city. I can promise them we will find the culprits, and have them punished.”

  “That may be difficult,” Jameson said. “I did a little digging myself—ah, pardon the pun—and it seems most of the houses in the New Mercantile District have been empty for years. I believe a small number of the families are still in Dunwall. Some went to Potterstead and Baleton, but I believe most headed up to Arran. The majority were of old Morley stock, so I’m told.”

  Emily looked toward her council. “Understood, Jameson. Do your best.” Then she looked up at the others. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your assistance. We need to keep a watchful eye over Dunwall. Even after all these years, parts of the city are still in recovery after the terrors of the Rat Plague. It can be a slow process, but while we are rebuilding these areas, nothing must interfere. The people need confidence in the Empire, and—I’m sure you understand—confidence in me. This crime may seem a minor one, compared to what this city has faced in its past, but I cannot and will not let it pass.”

  The others agreed, including Corvo, who watched Emily with careful eyes. The plan was a sound one—keep watch on the city while working to find the grave robbers. Of course, it wasn’t just going to be the City Watch or Corvo’s agents out looking. He knew that Emily herself would make this her new task.

  He only hoped she didn’t get herself in too deep.

  Emily walked back to the throne. Standing in front of it on the dais, she lifted her hands and clapped, three times, the staccato sound echoing loudly around the chamber. A moment later the double doors of the throne room were swung open by two members of the Imperial Guard, letting in bright sunlight from the terrace beyond.

  There stood a young noble, about the same age as the Empress, wearing a high-collared jacket in a deep velvety green, with heavy blue brocade ornamentation. As the doors opened, the newcomer straightened and locked eyes with Emily. Corvo couldn’t resist a grin, and when he turned to Emily he saw that she, too, was smiling at Wyman.

  He was pleased that she had managed to somehow find love, despite her hectic schedule as Empress and, in secret, as Corvo’s pupil.

  Jameson turned to the throne and gave a theatrical bow, then bade farewell to Corvo and the High Overseer. Then, to the Ro
yal Protector he gave a slight, discrete nod, which Corvo returned.

  They would continue this meeting in private.

  “Your Majesty,” Khulan said, giving a deep bow before the throne. “I shall keep you informed of all developments.”

  “Thank you, High Overseer.”

  “Your Majesty,” Corvo said, “if I may have a moment with the High Overseer. There are some arrangements to be made with the Abbey that I want to go over.”

  Emily smiled at her Royal Protector. “Of course,” she said, then she descended the steps of the throne and took the High Overseer by the arm, leading them toward the double doors. Released from her grip, Khulan turned and gave a bow, first to Emily, and then to Wyman, still waiting patiently. Wyman returned the bow, then winked at Emily.

  Emily turned, trying—and failing—to hide the smile on her face.

  “Well, yes,” Corvo said, clearing his throat. “I’ll leave you to it. High Overseer Khulan, would you come with me?”

  Emily nodded and turned. Wyman gave Corvo a mock salute, then entered the throne room behind her. The two guards who were supposed to be on duty inside the chamber returned to their customary positions, leaving two more stationed out on the terrace. As the double doors closed, Khulan nodded and straightened his velvet coat.

  “Royal Protector?”

  Corvo stood for a moment outside the doors, tugging on his chin as he considered. “Ah, give me five minutes. Join me in my chambers, if you will.”

  Khulan bowed, and headed for the lift that would take him down into the body of Dunwall Tower. Corvo, meanwhile, turned back to the throne room doors, thinking things over.

  Until now, Emily’s nocturnal adventures had been innocent enough. True, if her secret had got out, they would scandalize the court, if not the entire city, but Corvo was confident in her abilities, and in his own.

  Following her out at night was his duty, and it was part of her training. Real-world training, outside of the safety of Dunwall Tower. But now, there was a risk. True enough, there had been before—risk of injury, of discovery—but the city was relatively safe, the spread of the gangs having mostly been contained years ago.