Dishonored--The Corroded Man

by Adam Christopher

  Corvo cocked his head. He exchanged a look first with Jameson, who clasped his hands behind his back and bounced a little on his heels, knowing well enough not to venture an opinion. Then Corvo glanced at the High Overseer. Khulan was trying very hard to keep his attention on the Empress, but he glanced at Corvo, as well, from the corner of his eye, and his lips twitched.

  “Ah, on what grounds, Your Majesty?” Corvo asked.

  The others in the throne room all turned to look at him. Only the Royal Protector would dare question the Empress like that.

  “New information,” the Empress said. “That is all you need to know.”

  Corvo cleared his throat. Of course, Emily was protecting her secret, not realizing that he knew all about her nighttime adventures. If she’d seen him at Brigmore Manor, then she knew he was on the trail of the Whalers.

  Except she couldn’t admit that fact.

  Corvo allowed a small smile to creep up the corner of his mouth. “I understand, Your Majesty,” he said, picking his words carefully. Emily would think she had the upper hand—believing that Corvo didn’t want to reveal his own actions at Brigmore Manor.

  The Captain of the City Watch cleared his throat.

  “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, my Lords, but the City Watch is stretched pretty thin as it is. We already have a liaison in place with the Abbey of the Everyman, to keep watch on the city’s burial grounds—” He gave a bow to the High Overseer. “—and with the cooperation of the Wrenhaven River Patrol, we can redouble patrols around Dunwall, but a full lockdown will require more soldiers than I can muster. Unless the Royal Spymaster can offer any assistance?”

  The Captain turned to Corvo. Corvo pursed his lips, then slowly shook his head.

  “My agents are my own,” he said flatly. “And you know better than to ask. They operate independently, and in secret. Anything else would jeopardize their anonymity and the security of the empire.”

  Captain Ramsey sighed, and turned back to Emily. “Yes, that was the answer I was expecting. Your Majesty, if a full lockdown really is your intention, then we would need to recall the Gristol army from their barracks at Whitecliff.” He paused. “And, dare I say it, I’m not sure the good people of Dunwall would like the idea of troops moving in, to keep them locked in their homes.”

  “Even recalling the army would take time,” Jameson said, interrupting the Captain with a small bow. “Forgive me, sirs, but this is time we do not have.”

  Corvo nodded at his companion, then turned to Emily.

  “I have an alternative.”

  Emily licked her lips. “I’m listening.”

  “Do nothing.”

  At this, Captain Ramsey and Commander Kittredge spun around to face him, their eyes wide in surprise. High Overseer Khulan looked at the floor. Corvo ignored them all, his gaze instead fixed on the throne.

  The Empress stood and stepped down from the dais to join the group on the red carpet. She lifted one black eyebrow.

  “Do nothing?”

  Corvo nodded. “Precisely that.”

  Emily shook her head. “I don’t understand. What does that achieve? What does it even mean?”

  Corvo folded his arms. “It means, we do nothing—outwardly. The City Watch and Overseers will continue their watch on the cemeteries. But the Boyle Masquerade is fast approaching. Let it take place. Let the city go about its business and its pleasure as though nothing is happening.”

  The Captain of the City Watch lifted his jowled chin. “And how are we supposed to capture the gang if we do ‘nothing,’ as you suggest?”

  “I have my own information,” Corvo said. “My agents are working around the clock, believe me, but we need to set a trap.”

  At this, he outlined the plan he and the High Overseer had discussed, leaving out any specifics which might expose the extent of his secret spy network. When he was finished, Ramsey and Kittredge looked first at each other, then back at Corvo, both of them with their faces screwed up in disbelief. Ramsey opened his mouth as if to say something, then he sighed and turned back to the Empress.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “this is pure folly. You leave the fate of the city’s elite in the hands of one man? Corvo is the Royal Protector, your own bodyguard, but if he fails, consider the consequences. The city’s most influential citizens will be in attendance.”

  That was all Corvo needed. Emily’s loyalty to him was absolute, and she trusted him implicitly. Any suggestion that he or his agents were somehow not up to the task would touch a nerve in the young Empress, and would only serve to reinforce his own position.

  She shook her head.

  “No, he won’t be alone.” She turned to her father. “How many agents do you have ready?”

  Corvo smiled and gave a small bow. “Enough, Your Majesty.”

  “Very well.” Emily smiled back. “You may proceed with your plan.”

  Commander Kittredge spluttered while Captain Ramsey exhaled, long and slow.

  “Your Majesty, this is a terrible risk. The nobility of the city will be in the hands of your Royal Spymaster.”

  Corvo nodded. “And they will be safe, Commander.” He turned to Emily. “As will the Empress, here in the Tower. I will double your personal guard, as well as the guard on the Tower gates. I’ll also have agents stationed to keep watch.” He paused, and smiled. “Besides, with recent events, a quiet night with Wyman sounds like just what you need.”

  Emily smiled. “Well, if you put it like that.” Then she turned around to the others. “This audience is over. I place the City Watch and the Wrenhaven River Patrol under the Royal Protector’s direct command. That will be all.”

  Ramsey and Kittredge snapped their salutes to the Empress and—with perhaps the tiniest hesitation—to Corvo, and then marched out of the throne room, leaving Emily with Corvo, Khulan, and Jameson.

  As the throne room doors swung shut, Emily turned to her father, her arms folded and her head shaking.

  “I hope you’re right about this, Corvo.”

  “Trust me, Emily. Trust me.”

  Emily frowned. “You know I do.”

  Corvo gave his daughter a bow, then gestured to the High Overseer and Jameson.

  “Gentlemen, let’s get to work.”

  18

  DUNWALL TOWER

  15th Day, Month of Darkness, 1851

  “The alchemy of war is a curious thing. If an enemy sleeps, they are already defeated, and if they wake later after victory is yours, they may never even have seen your hand in their defeat. The crafting of certain reagents to induce sleep is a necessary school to master, as is the development of immunity against such mixtures by the slow titration of self-administered doses.”

  — A BETTER WAY TO DIE

  Surviving fragment of an assassin’s treatise,

  author unknown

  The next day at Dunwall Tower passed quickly and uneventfully. Corvo was absent, busy arranging plans for the Boyle Masquerade that evening, while the Imperial Court was quiet as the nobles of the city retreated behind closed doors, ready to surprise their friends with the amazing and elaborate costumes they had prepared in secret.

  The Masquerade Ball, the society event of the year, would go ahead as scheduled. The revelers would be safe under the watchful eye of Corvo and his agents. Nobody would know anything was happening.

  Meanwhile, the Empress was locked in her Tower, safely out of danger, while the Royal Protector did his job, defending the throne and the Empress who sat upon it.

  Emily repeated those facts to herself over and over all through the day. Yes, the plan was risky. But she trusted Corvo. Not only that, she knew there was far more to the gang’s activities than mere grave robbing, and she knew that he knew that, too. She’d seen him at Brigmore.

  But there was also the information she had gathered herself—information she felt was important, and that she knew she couldn’t tell Corvo without revealing her own secrets.

  Emily entered her private apartments and pa
used. She’d come to her decision.

  She was duty-bound to help, in any way she could.

  She locked the apartment door then headed over to the opposite wall, where Anton Sokolov’s secret lock was hidden in plain sight. She lifted her hand and pressed her signet ring against the keyhole that looked like nothing more than another delicate decorative embellishment. The ring mated with the finely balanced mechanism, and there was a click as the hidden wall panel unlocked and opened.

  Emily stepped through. Once in her safe room, she headed straight for a secure footlocker that was against one wall. She spun the combination lock and opened the lid. Inside, nestled on levered shelves, were the various bolts for her wrist crossbow. Emily reached in and swung the top shelf out, revealing the second shelf beneath. The crossbow bolts there were different, the body of each a long, thin glass tube filled with a green, faintly luminescent liquid.

  She picked out a bolt and took it over to her workbench. Holding the bolt upright, she began carefully disassembling it, removing the flight and the arrowhead until eventually she had freed the vial of green liquid. She held it up to the light, and frowned. She really didn’t want to do what she was planning—and she wasn’t entirely sure it would work, anyway—but she felt she had no choice.

  Not if she was to protect her secret.

  Checking that the vial was carefully stoppered, she slipped it into her pocket and headed back into her apartment, closing the secret door behind her.

  * * *

  Emily found Wyman waiting for her in the Great Hall, smiling as she entered. Her step faltered for just a second, but Wyman didn’t seem to notice before she moved in for a polite, formal kiss.

  As they broke off, Wyman turned and waved at the room.

  “Isn’t this amazing? Every year, they outdo themselves.”

  Emily looked around. The Great Hall had been done up in colorful bunting, with flags hanging from the hammer beam roof high overhead. The great banquet table, which days earlier had been covered with the costume materials, had been separated into two halves, each set up on the opposite side of the room. Against the west wall, the table was covered with a veritable feast of exotic finger foods, while on the east wall about an acre of glassware was laid out in front of a forest of bottles filled with interesting liquids.

  She sighed. Wyman was right, it did look incredible—the traditional pre-ball reception, held in the Great Hall of Dunwall Tower for the members of the Imperial Court to mix and mingle before the train of carriages took them all off to the Boyle Mansion. As per the tradition, this was as far as the Empress ever got.

  Emily reached out and took Wyman’s hand.

  “M’lady!” Wyman gave a theatrical bow.

  Emily laughed, but she couldn’t help feeling sour to her stomach about what she was going to do.

  “You’re not unhappy to miss the masquerade this year?” she asked.

  Wyman laughed and looked up at the flags of the nobility hanging from the ceiling. “Not at all. It’s not my thing really. Never has been—and besides, who would I go with these days? My sister?” More laughter. “Believe me, there is no place I would rather be than here, locked away in Dunwall Tower with the Empress of the Isles.”

  Wyman squeezed Emily’s hand. She smiled, but the smile faltered again. This time Wyman did notice.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Emily blinked, then laughed, rather self-consciously.

  “Ah… oh, nothing,” she said. “It’s just that one day I think I’d like to take you to a masquerade ball.”

  “What?” Wyman asked, hand pressed to chest, face an exaggerated expression of shocked outrage. “But, m’lady, people would talk!” Wyman’s eyes rolled up as though a faint was imminent. “The scandal. Lords and ladies, the scandal!” Laughing, Wyman collapsed into Emily’s arms and she spun, dragging them both around playfully until she was facing the doors of the Great Hall.

  Over Wyman’s shoulder, she cast a watchful eye. There wasn’t much time. The first of the costumed revelers would be arriving any minute now.

  “Time to get started,” she said, pushing herself away, then leading the way over to the drinks table. Wyman’s expression flickered in confusion at her words, but Emily quickly covered. “Time for a drink! As Empress of the Isles, I get to start first.” Then she turned to the table, keeping her back to the room, hiding the glasses that rested immediately in front of her.

  She was in luck. As well as Tyvian wines, there was a liqueur from Karnaca, the liquid a deep green, the aroma a heady mix of spices and peppermint. Selecting a tall glass, she slid the vial out of her pocket and upended it into the glass, then quickly filled the remainder with the liqueur. Replacing the empty vial in her pocket, she grabbed the drink and turned around.

  Wyman was over at the other table, selecting something to eat.

  “My Lords and Ladies,” Emily said, mimicking Wyman’s earlier pretentiousness. She held out the tall glass of green drink, bowing low.

  “Well, well, served by the Empress herself. My, see how low the mighty have fallen.” Wyman took the drink and peered suspiciously at the contents. “Uh… Serkonan spiced… something something?”

  Emily nodded. She pressed her lips together.

  Just bloody drink the stuff, she thought.

  “I’d rather have some bubbly,” Wyman said, looking expectantly at the drinks table before holding up Emily’s offering. “You’ve got the right glass for that at least… I would have thought Serkonan spiced liqueur was drunk out of a small round cup, not this.” Wyman gave the drink a sniff and frowned some more. “Oh, this isn’t spiced… what’s in it?”

  “I made it with my own fair and beautiful Imperial hands,” Emily said.

  “Yes but what did you make with those fair and beautiful Imperial hands?”

  “Ah… my own concoction. Let’s call it, Emily’s Elixir. Now just drink the bloody thing, and tell me what you think.” She tried hard not to sound too annoyed.

  Wyman was about to take a sip, then he paused before lowering the glass and looking at the Empress.

  “You’re not joining me?”

  “No,” Emily said. “I mean, yes, but I wanted to see what you thought first.”

  “So now I’m a test subject?”

  “You could say that, yes.”

  Wyman sighed and lifted the glass to the light to observe the sparkling green liquid. The pompous voice returned, the elocution pitch-perfect, the r’s rolling like thunder on the horizon.

  “An experiment was carried out in the laboratories of her right Royal High and Mightiness.” Then Wyman laughed. “Roll up, roll up, and take a snifter of the remarkable Emily’s Elixir, guaranteed to cure what ails ya, and more besides!”

  Wyman glanced sideways at Emily. “If my hair falls out, you’re buying me a hat made of solid gold.”

  “Deal,” Emily said.

  “Bottom’s up,” Wyman said, before swallowing the contents of the glass in a single, long gulp. Wyman paused, jaw open, tongue dancing, then nodded. “Actually that’s not bad. There’s something sweet in it, sort of like… I mean… I think… maybe…”

  Wyman dropped the glass.

  Emily caught it before it hit the floor.

  Then Wyman followed the glass. Emily, her own glass in one hand, managed to hook her other under the young noble’s armpit, arresting the fall and letting the limp figure sink gently to the floor.

  “Sorry, my love,” Emily whispered, “but I know Corvo asked you to keep an eye on me.”

  Time ticked on. The guests would arrive at any moment. Looking around, she quickly darted over to the curtains at the end of the table and hid the spent glass behind it, then she ran back to Wyman and lifted her companion over her shoulders.

  Bent under the weight, she shuffled to the back of the Great Hall and kicked at the curtains to reveal a wall of fine, dark wooden panels with an elaborate, carved border running along the top. She squinted as she searched along the upper edge of the border, u
ntil she saw what she was looking for—bird in flight, wings outstretched.

  Balancing Wyman carefully against her, she reached up and twisted the carving. There was a click, and the wooden panel swung inward, revealing one of the Tower’s many secret passages. Emily slid sideways through the opening, careful not to knock the sleeping young noble’s head on the woodwork, then closed the panel with her foot.

  The passageway beyond was short, and in just a few moments, she emerged from behind another panel in the corridor behind the Great Hall. The coast was clear but Emily paused, listening for a few seconds to make sure before carrying her unconscious burden off toward one of the guest apartments.

  If she had judged the dose of sleeping elixir correctly, Wyman would sleep for hours, and Emily was already concocting a story in her mind to explain how her companion had come down with a sudden chill, and had been put to bed.

  In the meanwhile, she had work to do.

  * * *

  The makeshift workroom and haberdashery was dark and quiet, the tailors and seamstresses long since retired for the night. Emily appeared from behind a curtain in the dark room, having stolen down the hallway past a lonely night-shift maid.

  The large chamber was lined with shelves, on which were stacked hundreds of bolts of cloth—the same cloth which had been laid out in the Great Hall, the very same cloth from which many of the masquerade costumes had been crafted for members of the Imperial Court.

  She crept to the back of the room, past the shelving, to where rows of finished and half-finished clothes were hung on long racks. Just behind these were the sample masquerade costumes, ready to be placed back into storage until they were needed next year.

  Emily looked over the costumes. She needed something that was a complete disguise, with a mask that would cover her whole head, yet something that was still practical—as much as it could be. Butterflies with huge wings were no good, nor the lions and tigers with great trailing tails, their masks large and top-heavy. She had to be able to move when she needed to.