The surviving gangster gave a shrill whistle as he raced for the undergrowth. The Whalers spun to face him and give chase—and then they paused, as from the bushes came more men.
Lots more men. The same as the others, former members of the Dunwall street gangs, wearing a ramshackle collection of work clothes, some armed with pistols, others with knives and clubs. The two groups faced each other for a few seconds, both sizing the opposition up. And then, with yells from both sides, the two gangs charged.
Emily ducked down, rattling off in her mind the defensive moves her father had spent more than a decade drilling into her head as she allowed the Whalers to stream past her, racing in for the attack. Shots rang out—one, two, three, four, then Emily lost count. At the back of the skirmish she quickly dove behind a tree, the front side of which then exploded as a fusillade of shots peppered the wood.
She dropped onto her stomach, and waited, playing dead. Counted to ten, and when no one seemed to be coming to take a closer look, she moved away from the sounds of the conflict, crawling flat on her stomach. Reaching an overgrown, broken wall, she pulled herself over it, then curled up and risked taking a look back.
The fight in the clearing was brutal, violent. Blades flicked in the moonlight and the foggy tendrils from the swampy woodland mixed with acrid clouds of black smoke from the gunfire. The body count was already high, and climbing.
The Whalers were losing. They were good fighters, but this wasn’t their kind of fight. They were masters of stealth and assassination—or had been when Daud had led them—but this? This was an open, dirty brawl. Perfectly suited to their opponents. The Bottle Street Gang, the Hatters, the Dead Eels. It seemed like every faction of Dunwall street gang was represented, the men—and women—working together to take out those who had dared intrude.
Then, a snap of branch, a rustle of bushes, somewhere behind Emily, away from the action, toward the main house itself. She turned, pressing her back against the wall, to look.
There. Someone running toward the house. It was hard to see in the broken darkness, but the hooded jacket was a dull red color.
Galia. She’d escaped from the vault, using the same trick as she had used to get in.
Emily jumped up and ran after her.
13
BRIGMORE MANOR, MUTCHERHAVEN DISTRICT
12th Day, Month of Darkness, 1851
“You want the chinwag on Slackjaw? What he was like when we was young, before he got his name? Oh, he’s got a cool head now, but it weren’t always like that in the days before he was boss of the Bottle Street gang. Time was, young Slackjaw wasn’t such a reasonable man.”
— EARLY LIFE AND CRIMINAL RECORD: SLACKJAW
Excerpt from a series of letters sent
by a member of the Bottle Street Gang
Emily kept on Galia’s trail, the leader of the Whalers seeming to be unaware she was being followed, uncaring of the noise she made as the gunfire and cries of the fight by the crypt echoed out across the foggy darkness of the estate.
Ahead of them was a bright light that cast long shadows in the woods and reflected awkwardly in the goggles of the mask Emily realized she was still wearing. She yanked it off and dumped it, and reveled in the cool of the night air against her face.
The woods reached close to the house but stopped short, leaving a gap of perhaps fifty yards. Galia came to a halt behind the broad trunk of a tree, the branches of which reached out to gingerly caress the upper floors of the old mansion. Emily dropped into the hollow formed by an ancient tree root, and looked out over the edge.
One room on the ground floor of the mansion had massive glass doors, which opened out onto the weed-choked remains of a large patio—the perfect place, once upon a time, for an aristocratic garden party. The doors were open, and the room beyond was brightly lit now. With her first proper view of the house, Emily could see that it wasn’t derelict at all, despite the state of the grounds.
The huge room beyond the glass doors—a ballroom, perhaps, or possibly one end of a long gallery—had been stripped, the walls showing the bare carcass of the house interior, while there were some large shapes under dirty white sheets. Farther along the exterior, the side of the building was partially covered with scaffolding. As she had learned from the permits and plans in Corvo’s office, the house was being restored and repaired, and the work had already begun in earnest.
As Emily watched, some of the allied gang members appeared from the darkness and headed across the ornamental patio, dragging captured members of the Whalers between them. It was hard to see, but this was a different group of defenders, and other Whalers. Rinaldo’s group had been caught, too.
Two men appeared in the light of the ground floor room.
Emily gasped.
The first man was older, maybe in his late fifties or sixties. His head was bald but he had a long gray plait of hair trailing down his back and an impressive mustache decorating his upper lip, the bushy sideburns curling up to join what was left of his hairline. As he folded his arms, Emily saw his biceps bulge. He was old, but in good shape—perhaps, she thought, a veteran of the old street gangs.
But it was the man standing next to him who caught Emily by surprise. He was as tall and as broad as his companion, and he wore a hooded tunic crisscrossed with belts. Beneath the hood, the metal and leather of his skull-like mask shone in the night. It was a mask Emily knew well.
A mask from so many years ago—the mask she knew the Royal Protector secretly donned when he was involved in matters far from his official duties, a part of his life unbecoming his formal role in her court.
Corvo.
Then she felt the electric tingling again, the weird pressure behind her eyes. She glanced to her left, to where Galia was standing behind the tree, watching the proceedings.
Where Galia had been standing. All that was there now was the puff of inky-black nothing that faded and was gone.
Emily frowned, and crept forward. The huge tree was ideal cover, and the way its branches actually touched the second floor of the mansion—a second floor that was half ruin, half construction site, the entry points numerous and easy—just as useful.
Emily began to climb.
* * *
Slackjaw—Azariah—grinned and took a breath, then swung his fist again. That fist—and the brass knuckleduster wrapped around it—connected with the face of the man tied to the chair, sending both the bound prisoner and chair sprawling sideways and an arc of blood and spit spattering over the bare floorboards.
As Slackjaw stood there, bent over, both hands on his knees as he caught his breath, one of two lieutenants stationed in the room reached down and pulled the prisoner back to the upright position. The prisoner moaned, his face a blackened, bloody mess, his hair slick with sweat and stuck to his face. On the floor beside him was the discarded mask of a Whaler.
Standing at the back of the room, Corvo watched from behind his own mask, his arms folded, as Slackjaw tried his own interrogation technique. Corvo didn’t approve of the methods, but he wasn’t going to intervene, not yet. They needed information, and, despite everything, this was Slackjaw’s house, these were Slackjaw’s men.
Which meant he had to play by Slackjaw’s rules.
The old gangster stood up and whooped at the ceiling. Then he turned and laughed at Corvo.
“You know, there was a time when I would have said this kind of work was behind me, and what I really needed to do was buy a little vineyard and spend most of my time napping in a cushioned rocker,” he said breathlessly, “but lately I’ve come to change my position… somewhat.”
Then he turned around and punched the prisoner again. The legs of the chair rocked, but the strike wasn’t as strong this time. Bending over and gasping for breath again, he waved away a lieutenant who reached to lend a hand. Eventually Slackjaw stood and shook his head, the grin still on his face. He ran his non-punching hand over his mustache.
“This kind of exercise is good for the heart and soul
, it is,” he said. “Must say I’ve missed it. Nothing else like it to get the corpuscles flowing so.”
Corvo was glad his mask hid his grimace of distaste. Of course Slackjaw hadn’t changed, and it was foolish to have ever thought otherwise. He was older, for sure, and his business interests might have shifted sideways, turning the Bottle Street Gang and the distillery into a legitimate enterprise, but he was still a crook and a thug.
The Royal Protector glanced at the two lieutenants in the room. They were young men, built like brick privies the pair of them, and they were enjoying the evening’s events just as much as their boss.
So, no, nothing had changed.
“Hey, boss, this one’s no good.”
Slackjaw, still puffing, turned back to his men. One of them was leaning over the prisoner, peering into the man’s face as he held his head up by his hair. Slackjaw wandered over and squinted at the bound figure. He nudged his shoulder with the knuckleduster, then stood up and shook his head.
“Huh,” he said. “They don’t breed ’em like they used to. Used to be tough, the Whalers. You never wanted to meet one in a dark alley, else you’d likely not be coming home for yer supper.” He straightened and nodded to the other lieutenant. “Bring the next one in, let’s see if he’s any better.”
He walked over to Corvo, working the brass knuckles off his hand. He paused by one of the sheet-covered pieces of furniture and grabbed the edge of the cover to wipe his hand. Then he flexed his fingers and shook his hand loosely from the wrist. Even with the knuckleduster, Corvo could see the man’s hand was red raw.
“Hey, you want to take over?” Slackjaw asked. “This old man needs a nice sit down, and a slug or two of the good stuff.”
Corvo turned, watching as Slackjaw headed to the fireplace. On the mantle was a bottle of whiskey, which the old man took. He unplugged the stopper and tossed it into the empty fireplace, then upended the bottle into his mouth.
Slackjaw’s Adam’s apple bounced as he drank nearly a quarter of the bottle before coming up for air. He then offered the bottle to Corvo.
Corvo remained unmoving, his arms tightly folded.
Slackjaw laughed. “Guess you don’t want to be taking that fancy mask of yours off, oh mysterious man of mystery.”
“This isn’t working,” Corvo said.
Slackjaw stopped, the bottle halfway to his lips. He grimaced, as if he had stepped in something he would rather not have.
“What do you mean? We caught the bastards, didn’t we? Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes,” Corvo said, pushing off from the wall. As he got closer to Slackjaw, the old man lifted his chin in defiance. “But what we also need is information. We need to know who their boss is, and what they’re doing.”
“Yeah… and? Isn’t that just exactly what I’m doing for you?” Still holding the bottle, Slackjaw gestured to the blood-spattered floorboards as another of the Whalers was led in through the big doors. It was an older black man with a chinstrap beard.
“We’re not going to find out anything,” Corvo said, “if you keep killing the prisoners.”
Slackjaw frowned, then worked his mouth up and down, as if he hadn’t really considered the matter until now.
The prisoner, meanwhile, was pushed down into the chair by one thug while the other tied his hands. The Whaler’s gaze moved from Slackjaw, to Corvo—his eyes going wide at the sight of the skull-like mask—before settling on the body of his former companion, now lying on the floor in a growing pool of blood.
Slackjaw smiled at the prisoner and gave a bow.
“And a good evening to you, sir—a warm welcome to me humble abode.” He stepped closer, sipping at his bottle, then he leaned down, sticking his face right in the other man’s. “Now, let’s get straight to it. The night is no longer young, and nor am I. I’ve enjoyed me exercise, but I need me beauty sleep, and me friend over there says I’ve been going a bit too hard on you all.”
Slackjaw glanced down at the body by the chair, and he laughed.
“Maybe he’s right. Thing is, this is my house. Maybe you and your friends didn’t know that. I gather you were wanting a little souvenir from the old crypt. Well, that crypt is also my property, and when you steal from Azariah Fillmore, you make a very, very big mistake indeed.”
With that he walked back to the fireplace, replacing the whiskey bottle on the mantle. Then he turned, took the knuckledusters from his pocket, and slid them back onto his hand, wincing at the discomfort.
“So, I’ve got a question for you,” he said, walking back to the prisoner. “You look like a fine fella. You look like you’ve seen a thing or two, right? Not like your friends. The youth of today, eh? Believe me, I know what it’s like.”
Slackjaw glanced at his two lieutenants, who looked back at their boss, each with an expression that was slightly confused and annoyed at the same time.
“Anyway, to the question,” he continued. “Well, one of many, but let’s start with the basics. I want you to tell my friend in the corner there, the one with that scary old face, what you were all doing down at the crypt, and what you’re planning on doing with all these bones you’ve been stealing.”
The prisoner didn’t say anything, his big eyes merely flicking between Slackjaw, his lieutenants, and Corvo.
Slackjaw sighed, then he cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders. He winked at Corvo.
“Well, I’ll tell you now, lad, I’m going to be sore in the morning.”
With that, he drew his fist back for the first punch.
And then the prisoner spoke.
“Yes!”
Slackjaw dropped his arm.
“Ah… yes? Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’ll talk. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Slackjaw stared at the prisoner. He smiled, and then the smile flickered and went out and he slapped his punching arm against his side.
“Ah. Well then. Blow it all, I was hoping for a little more resistance than that.” He glanced at Corvo. “Y’know, makes it more satisfying, like.”
“Any more satisfying and he’d be dead, too,” Corvo said. He unfolded his arms and stepped toward the prisoner. As he did, the man’s mouth twitched into a smile at one corner, and he nodded slightly.
Corvo didn’t like that expression.
“You got something to say?”
The prisoner nodded and the smile got bigger, showing yellow teeth again his dark skin.
“I know you,” he said.
“I doubt it,” Corvo said.
“Back then,” the prisoner said, jerking his head to one side as if “back then” was someplace just over his shoulder. “Back when Daud was around. You knew Daud too, didn’t you?”
Corvo frowned. “What’s your name?”
The man’s smile vanished. “Rinaldo. Rinaldo Escobar.”
Corvo almost said “from Karnaca too?” but he kept his mouth shut. Instead he asked, “So what do you want to tell us?”
Rinaldo shifted in his chair and tried to lift his arms up, but the bonds holding him were firm.
“Untie me,” he said. “I’ve got something to show you.”
Slackjaw laughed. “I’ll bet you have, son.”
Rinaldo looked at the man with one eyebrow raised, then turned to Corvo and nodded.
“In my jacket pocket. Take a look.”
Slackjaw glanced sideways at Corvo, his lips pursed. Corvo considered. There was no danger. Rinaldo was tied up. Slackjaw and his lackeys were rather keen to mete out another round of bone-crunching, and were unlikely to let Rinaldo get very far if the Whaler tried anything.
So he moved around behind Rinaldo, and felt the pockets of the tunic. Nothing in the first, the second. Then, moving up to the breast pockets.
There. Something small, hard.
Corvo reached in, then hissed behind his mask as he got a shock from something. He pulled his hand out quickly. At the movement, Slackjaw’s two men had their knives at Rinaldo’s throat. Cor
vo watched a bead of blood trickle down the prisoner’s neck.
But Rinaldo wasn’t scared. He was looking at right at Corvo.
“I know. It does the same to me. Try again.”
Corvo watched Rinaldo with narrow eyes, then he crouched down and reached into the pocket again. His fingertips prickled at the contact with… whatever it was, but it was better, this time. He curled his fingers around it and drew the object out. Slackjaw drew close, breathing out a lungful of whiskey-flavored air.
“What in all the world is that?”
Corvo stared at the object in his hand. It was small and fitted into his palm. It was octagonal, crafted out of copper wire and what looked like bone that was white, but slightly charred at the edges. It was warm, and not just from being in Rinaldo’s pocket.
He knew exactly what it was.
A bonecharm—but not like one he’d ever seen before.
He looked back to Rinaldo.
“Where did you get this?”
Rinaldo smiled. “Untie me and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
14
BRIGMORE MANOR, MUTCHERHAVEN DISTRICT
12th Day, Month of Darkness, 1851
“The true weapon of the enemy is their eyes, because with their eyes they can see where you are, they can see what you are doing, they can see how you can be defeated. You must use your own eyes first, and act so that the enemy cannot. The art of spying is as noble as the art of war itself.”
— A BETTER WAY TO DIE
Surviving fragment of an assassin’s treatise,
author unknown
Emily lay on the bare floorboards of the room above the long gallery, peering down at the interrogation through a small gap in the floor. The room she was in hadn’t been stripped yet, and was old, musty, and rotting.
She had watched as the old man with the knuckledusters had gone too far with his interrogation, killing two Whalers in a row. She had watched as Corvo stood by, impassively. At first she’d been shocked at how her father was just letting the other man dispense out such brutality. But Corvo hadn’t taken part himself, and then Emily witnessed the argument about it between the two men.
Dishonored--The Corroded Man Page 15