Dishonored--The Corroded Man Page 9

  Now he stood, walked over to the platform rail, and leaned down. The floor was empty, Galia and the Boss heading down into the cellars while the rest of the gang slept off their night’s work in the back of the factory. Rinaldo was alone.

  He whistled, just quietly, but it still echoed more than he would have liked, then he stopped and shook his head as he thought back over the conversation.

  It wasn’t true, of course. None of it. Escape from Tyvia? Yes, of course, no problem. That happened all the time, right? It was nothing more than a nice little holiday in the snow, getting a little light exercise in the health camps before walking off into the sunset once you’d had enough.

  Rinaldo sniggered. It was ridiculous. The whole thing. Okay, so he’d escaped from Tyvia… with, what, magical powers? After being visited by some kind of supernatural benefactor, in a dream?

  It was worse than a child’s bedtime story. Beware Zhukov, the monster from Tyvia, the only man in history to have ever visited the prisons of Tyvia—and returned to tell the tale! Add music…

  Dun-dun… DUN!

  Rinaldo paused. Was there any truth in it? Galia seemed to buy it, hook, line, and sinker. And sure, they had some Void tricks, like those given to them by Daud. But Daud had never harped on about destiny and revenge and a higher purpose.

  Anyway, what he’d heard pretty much confirmed his own suspicions, namely, that Galia knew as much about the big plan as Rinaldo did. Which was to say, she knew nothing at all. Zhukov had a hold on her, something that made her believe him.

  What was it? Galia was smart—one of the smartest people Rinaldo had ever known. Back in the old days of the Whalers, he’d been a master, and she was just a novice. But he’d seen the potential there, the talent that grew and continued to grow, right up until Daud’s disappearance.

  Galia would have been a master one day. Of that, Rinaldo had no doubt. And sure, the years afterward had been hard. He’d found Galia at the Golden Cat, but spending nearly every waking moment pickled in liquor. Then she’d got better and, he had to admit, this guy Zhukov had finished the job that Rinaldo had started. Since moving into the old slaughterhouse, Rinaldo hadn’t seen her touch a drop of the Old Dunwall.

  She’d done what she had always wanted to do—got the Whalers back together. Then again, it had been with the helping hand of a freak in a big coat and very stupid hat, who liked to tell tall tales about the snows of Tyvia.

  Yeah, right. Still… something was going on. Something about revenge, and restoring balance.

  Huh. Sounded strange.

  Rinaldo turned back to the rail and leaned over, his eyes drifting across the slaughterhouse floor and to the stairs that led to the basement. He hadn’t been down there—nobody had, as far as he knew. It was probably flooded, given the state of the building. Except… that was exactly where Zhukov was leading Galia. Which meant he was keeping something down there.

  Rinaldo now knew where the answers lay.

  In the basement. Down the stairs.

  But it was too risky, for now. He wasn’t sure what the basements were usually used for back when the slaughterhouse was running—storerooms, probably whale oil storage tanks? He would need to scout it out, take a look when the coast was clear.

  Rinaldo crouched down in the shadows, and watched the stairs. Galia and Zhukov would return at some point, and Rinaldo was patient. But he wanted to see what was down there. He wanted to know what was going on—what Zhukov was planning.

  What Galia had signed them up for.

  * * *

  Galia stepped back and didn’t stop until she felt the cold steel of the storeroom door on her back. She took a breath, tasted bile in her throat.

  She shook her head. Wanted, desperately, to turn around, to look away from the horror in front of her. Instead, she gulped, and lifted her chin again, a familiar tick that gave her courage, strength, confidence.

  It worked, too.

  She’d seen things, back in the day. Daud’s Whalers had been ruthless. Galia, too, she told herself. Perhaps the years drinking herself to death had changed things, softened her. Or maybe it was moldering, graveyard stench, the decay and the rot, the worms and beetles and things that slid.

  “You have all of… this,” she said, gesturing with one hand at the contents of Zhukov’s basement workshop, while trying not to look at any of it, instead focusing on his red shining goggles that glittered in the sticky yellow light of the whale oil lamps. “So I still don’t understand what you need us for.”

  Zhukov turned back to his workbench, his fingers playing over the brass cogs and wheels of the large device that sat on it, some kind of instrument that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Academy of Natural Philosophy.

  Of course, Galia had never seen the place herself, but Daud had made cryptic mentions a few times. Growing up, Galia had heard plenty of stories about the strange place, a monument to the hidden secrets of the cosmos, where bizarre practitioners dabbled in dozens of fields of natural philosophy, mixing modern processes with ancient alchemies.

  Some said that they had built machines to predict when rain would fall, or where new silver veins could be found beneath the mountains of Serkonos, while other stories told of men attempting to reanimate dead tissue using electricity. Galia wasn’t sure if any of that was true, but then again, she’d never thought the stories weren’t true, either.

  The machine on the workbench certainly matched the kind of thing she imagined would have come out of the Academy, anyway. The rest of the… material… that lay on the benches?

  Well, she wasn’t so sure about that.

  “You and your Whalers have been of great help to me, Galia,” Zhukov said. “And now you have seen the source of the power I grant you, yet this is not enough. I have promised you more, and you shall have it—we all will. But to that end I still require your help a little further.”

  Galia swallowed, and nodded, perhaps to Zhukov’s back, perhaps to herself.

  “Tell me what to do.”

  Zhukov spun around and approached her. She didn’t feel afraid—in fact, she felt sick—but the metal door was cold on her back as she pressed herself into it, its wheel digging painfully into her backbone.

  Good. That’s good. Galia pressed harder and it hurt more. It was something to focus on, something to keep her mind clear.

  “I want revenge,” Zhukov said, his red eyes bearing down on Galia, “and I will get it—not just against the rulers of my country, the High Judges, but against the people of Tyvia itself. My betrayal was wholesale and absolute. And for that, they will all pay.”

  Zhukov turned back to the table and leaned over his instrument, one gloved hand making fine adjustments to the wheels and levers that held the complex array of lenses in place. Galia couldn’t see what was under the lenses, and she didn’t want to look.

  “I knew I needed help,” Zhukov continued. “I also knew that there were once others like me, those who carried the mark. I had heard stories of a man called Daud, so I sought him out. I traveled far, but I could not find him. But I also heard about the reputation of his lieutenants—of Thomas, Billie Lurk, and other names. None of them could be found. But Galia Fleet—that was another name, one who was quick to learn, who knew Daud, and his secrets. One who would have taken her rightful place at his side, so some said, had the world not lost its balance all those years ago.”

  Galia felt her heart leap into her throat.

  “I sought you out at the Golden Cat,” Zhukov said, “because I need you to help me restore that balance. In return, I can restore the balance within you. I have promised you power, and you will have it. But not like this, not this twilight power. You have felt it yourself—the more you use this power, the weaker you become, and the greater the desire, the need you feel.”

  He turned and walked back to Galia, slowly. She stared at the red light shining in his eyes. She felt dizzy, light-headed, like she’d had too much Old Dunwall.

  “I can give you all the power you w
ant, and it will be yours forever,” Zhukov said, his voice a low whisper. “I will give you the power to take over the whole city. Think of it. Dunwall will be yours. You will have the power to lead the Whalers to conquest. Daud didn’t dream big enough for you, did he? I can see it in your mind. He had potential, but he was limited. You… you will go farther. Much, much farther, with my help. In return, I only ask your obedience, and your assistance.”

  Galia swallowed the lump in her throat. She thought back to what she had seen in the Golden Cat—the dream Zhukov had shown her, almost as if it had been plucked out of her head.

  The Whalers—not a gang, but an army, with Galia its general.

  Dunwall would be theirs.

  And Dunwall would be just the first…

  Galia fought the dizziness that threatened to overcome her.

  She would do anything for Zhukov.

  Anything.

  “Tell me,” she whispered.

  Zhukov hissed behind his scarf, and he reached out, long, gloved fingers, taking Galia’s sharp chin. He lifted her head, and she let it be lifted.

  “Good,” he said quietly. “Good.” He dropped his hand, and at once Galia felt the absence of his touch, a strange, cold hollow feeling, somewhere deep inside her.

  “My plan requires some very special preparations, for which I need you and your Whalers. You have found me the perfect facilities, but there is more. I need you to steal something for me. It will be difficult—the object is not valuable and it is not guarded, but it will be hard to reach.”

  Galia allowed herself a small smile. She was beginning to feel more like herself.

  “With your power, Zhukov, we can go anywhere.”

  “Hah, yes,” he said, “and you will need that power for the next task. To carry out this… let’s call it a heist… I need to create something much more powerful than what you see in this room. The bones of the old merchants will suffice for now, but they are of comparatively limited use. I can carve them, animate them with my power, but what we need for the next phase are the bones of those infused with their own particular form of magic.”

  Galia frowned and pushed off from the door. She moved to the worktable, and, taking a breath, finally forced herself to look down at the items scattered across it. Then she turned, quite deliberately, and viewed the contents of the room—the contents she’d been trying so hard to ignore.

  Now she saw things differently. In the room were raw materials, nothing more. Like the whale oil that had once been stored in the tanks nearby. But she frowned as she ran Zhukov’s words through her mind. She turned back to him, confidence welling inside her.

  “Me and my boys are at your disposal, Zhukov,” she said, “but I’m going to need more to go on than just that. Just cut to the chase—tell me what you need, and we’ll go get it.”

  Zhukov nodded. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” he said, and at that Galia smiled, feeling as if the simple compliment was lavish praise. He stepped back to her.

  “What I need is at Brigmore Manor.”

  Galia’s jaw went up and down before she found the words to reply. She knew the location—she knew it well.

  And its former inhabitants.

  “Ah… Brigmore Manor?”

  “Yes, Galia,” Zhukov said. “Tell me, do you know the truth about a woman called Delilah?”

  A thousand thoughts crowded Galia’s mind. Yes, she knew Brigmore, and she knew about its former inhabitant. She knew all about Delilah. Galia didn’t speak, but Zhukov nodded.

  “Yes, the Brigmore Witches,” he said. “A seat of awful magic.”

  Galia shook her head. She never wanted to go back to Brigmore. Not now, not ever.

  But she had promised Zhukov loyalty, and he had promised her the world.

  “What I need,” Zhukov said, “is for you and your Whalers to break into the crypt.”

  Galia gasped. She couldn’t help it.

  “I want you to steal their bones,” Zhukov continued. “The bones of the Brigmore witches, from which we can carve our destiny.”

  7

  DUNWALL TOWER

  9th to 11th Days, Month of Darkness, 1851

  “The best sartorial designers from across the Empire were lured to the boutiques of Drapers Ward, where they found themselves freed from the need to solicit patrons. In fact they were elevated to high society, courted and pampered. The powerful and influential began to frequent the new Drapers Ward, paying any cost to be seen in the latest styles.”

  — THE HISTORY OF DRAPERS WARD

  Excerpt from The Districts of Dunwall, a recent book

  The days and nights passed quietly and for Emily, far, far, too slowly. The guard escort Corvo had assigned her quickly became annoying, although she knew her father had nothing but the best intentions for her.

  She spent nearly the whole of the second day trying to shake off her escort around the palace. It worked, too.

  On day three, she found that her escort had been expanded from one guard to two.

  As a result, all she could do was wait for news. It felt as if nothing was happening, that she was locked away in Dunwall Tower while events raced ahead of her, outside in the city. She didn’t go out at night, not while the hunt for the gang was on—it was too great a risk, not from the grave robbers, but likely from her own forces. The City Watch and the Wrenhaven River Patrol had boosted their numbers, calling in plenty of men for some well-earned overtime as they increased their surveillance of the city, and, with the Overseers, kept close watch on the city’s cemeteries and burial sites.

  While Emily knew she would have been able to get around the uniformed branches of her Imperial forces without too much difficulty, the anonymous secret agents of the Royal Spymaster were the real problem. How many Corvo had sent out—how many he even had, come to think of it—Emily didn’t know, but what she did know was that they would be good. Very, very good. Under Corvo’s leadership, they had the most advanced and formidable training in the whole Empire. She knew that because it was the same training she had received.

  So the chances of being seen—of being caught—were exponentially higher. Her nights, for the first time in weeks, were spent in Dunwall Tower.

  During the day there was work to do, of course. The duties and demands placed upon an Empress were constant. The ship of state, as her chamberlain was fond of reminding her, needed a captain at the wheel.

  So there were documents to sign, dignitaries to meet and greet and with whom to share tea. Already, diplomatic overtures had arrived from the Duke Luca Abele, ruler of Serkonos. The Duke was proposing an official state visit sometime in the next year or so, perhaps to coincide with the annual day of remembrance for Emily’s mother, Jessamine. The Serkonan officials had brought her a gift, too—a journal, bound in the finest hand-tooled leather their country could produce. Emily had been genuinely pleased at such a personal touch, and she promised to make good use of it.

  She accepted her responsibilities without complaint, burying herself in the work. Anything was better than sitting around doing nothing. For once in her life, being the Empress was a welcome distraction, as was the company of Wyman.

  Of Corvo himself she saw little, and when they did meet it was for official updates on the search, shared with High Overseer Khulan, Captain Ramsey of the City Watch, Commander Kittredge of the Wrenhaven River Patrol, and her friend and advisor, Jameson Curnow.

  Not that there was anything to report. There had been, so far, no suspicious activity around the cemeteries, and life in the city went on as it always had. News of the desecration of the old merchant graves had reached the public, despite the best efforts of Corvo to keep it out of the pages of the city’s newspaper, The Dunwall Courier.

  For three consecutive days the paper ran a feature, complete with crime-scene etchings showing the dug-up graves, but with no progress in the investigation and no repeats of the crime, the reports quickly ceased. Emily had hoped the coverage would fade away, so she was not displeased, but th
e suddenness of the shift was surprising. Perhaps Corvo had gone down and had a word or two with the editor.

  Whispers continued around the Imperial Court and nobles of the city for a little while longer, before conversation began to settle on a far more interesting and exciting topic. The most important social event in the Dunwall calendar was approaching—the annual Masquerade Ball at the Boyle Mansion.

  * * *

  Four days after the incident with the grave robbers, Emily sat with Corvo and Wyman at breakfast in the Empress’s private apartments. Wyman delicately sipped tea while Corvo drank short shots of strong coffee, the thick, viscous black liquid lightened only slightly with honey-sweetened goat’s milk.

  The pair were talking about something exceedingly dull—the regional spice and food festivals of Karnaca—and Emily half-listened while she went through the pile of the day’s correspondence that had been delivered to the table in a red leather valise. The cluster of letters was fat, but there didn’t seem to be anything of particular urgency or importance. The chamberlain could deal with it all, as was his duty.

  Then she stopped, midway through the stack of papers. She had come to a large envelope, the stiff paper a brilliant scarlet, the edges trimmed with gold, the front addressed to the Empress of the Isles in a huge, spidery hand.

  She recognized it at once. She had received an identical letter on this day each year for the last thirteen years. Initially, she had received it as it was intended—hand-delivered by a coiffured page, bringing the letter directly from the desk of the person who sent it while the ink was still drying on the envelope. By long-established tradition, the Empress of the Isles was the first person in Dunwall to receive the annual invitation to the Masquerade Ball.

  And by long-established tradition, the Empress was also the first person to decline.

  After five years of this, Emily had instructed the chamberlain to collect the invitation at the Tower Gates, taking it from the page and slipping it into her correspondence box. The formality of receiving the stupid red envelope was ridiculous, given that she could never attend.