Dishonored--The Corroded Man

by Adam Christopher

  One costume came to mind as she fumbled through the racks in the semidarkness. She remembered it from the Great Hall display, and she quickly found it.

  It was relatively modest, a black trouser suit inlaid with shimmering blue-black sequins and black metallic feathers, while the large collar of the jacket was embroidered with silver and gold ribbon. There were no awkward wings, and the mask itself was small and close-fitting, but still offered a complete disguise without being impractical.

  Emily pulled the components of the black sparrow costume off the rack.

  Yes. This will be perfect.

  This year, the Empress was going to the Masquerade Ball, and nobody would know a thing about it.

  INTERLUDE

  DUNWALL TOWER

  2nd Day, Month of Rain, 1845

  “To know your enemy is to first know yourself. To this end, every day must present a challenge, every moment an opportunity, to meet the person that you are. To search for your limits and to step beyond them. Only then can you be ready to face what may come, because only then will you know that of which you are capable.”

  — A BETTER WAY TO DIE

  Surviving fragment of an assassin’s treatise,

  author unknown

  Empress Emily Kaldwin walked into the throne room, then paused, and looked around.

  Something was wrong.

  The chamber was huge, long and vaulted like the main hall of the Abbey of the Everyman, lined with cabinets showcasing the wealth of the Empire, with artifacts from every corner of the Isles. There was even, in one case, a small black piece of driftwood that looked more like it was the last survivor of a fire. As fragile as anything, it was supposedly a relic from the Pandyssian Continent. The idea had entranced Emily since childhood and, she had to admit, continued to do so to this day.

  She stopped, halfway to the silver throne that sat on the raised, red-carpeted dais at the end of the chamber. The Imperial Court was not in session, and although she had been the Empress for some eight years now, she had to admit she disliked using this room. It was too—well, it was too regal. She had accepted her life as Empress, but she was determined not to sink into the soft leather of the throne and rule without a thought for her Isles, her cities, her people.

  If only she could actually go out and meet her subjects. Learn about them and their lives as they struggled to rebuild Dunwall after the reign of the Lord Regent.

  Perhaps she would, one day—free from the ever-watchful gaze of her guards, of her courtiers. Of her father, the Royal Protector. Today was her eighteenth birthday. Perhaps today could mark a change, if she made it so. At eighteen she was no longer a child.

  She sighed, and stood, tapping her foot. She was here now because a request had been made. The Captain of the City Watch had requested an audience, with some urgency.

  And yet… the throne room was empty.

  The Captain hadn’t arrived yet, and there was something else, too. Because even when not in use, the throne room was guarded—there had been two guards on duty outside, who had saluted her and swung the doors open for their Empress. But the two who were supposed to be on duty on the inside of the door were strangely absent. With the doors now closed, Emily found herself alone.

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She curled her fingers into fists, and instinctively she bent her knees, ready for what she sensed was about to come.

  There was a creaking sound from behind her.

  She spun.

  Two men appeared from behind the thick curtains that were gathered on either side of the throne room doors. They were dressed in brown, mismatched leathers, their tunics crisscrossed with belts. Each man was hooded, his face hidden behind a black cloth mask tied around his head.

  They approached slowly, shoulders rolling, their eyes on the Empress. They seemed to be unarmed, but one of them cracked his knuckles loudly.

  Another sound, and Emily turned to face the throne. From behind it stepped two more men, the same as the others.

  Four men, four intruders. Thugs, all here for one very particular reason.

  Emily’s eyes narrowed. She gritted her teeth, and glanced around the men as they closed in on her from all sides.

  There was nowhere to go.

  Nowhere to run.

  Emily was alone.

  All she could do was fight.

  * * *

  Corvo kicked at the body by his feet, then looked around the throne room. There were three more bodies stretched out on the floor, scattered like cut flowers. There was a lot of blood, but the men were all breathing. They would be sore when they woke up.

  Emily sat on the edge of the throne, head tilted back as she held a cloth to her face in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood from her nose.

  Corvo lifted an eyebrow at the Empress.

  “I’m amazed,” he said. “You’ve done well. You need to be congratulated.”

  “What I need,” Emily said, “is a long, hot bath, some ointment, and for my Royal Protector to explain how in all the Isles a gang of assassins manages to penetrate not just Dunwall Tower, but the throne room.”

  Corvo pursed his lips, nodding. He placed his hands behind his back and carefully stepped over a groaning thug as he approached the throne.

  “Mercenaries,” he said, “not assassins. And they did pretty well, all things considered.”

  Emily’s forehead creased in confusion, and she pulled the cloth away from her face. She looked down at her father.

  “They did pretty well?”

  “Yes. Pretty well.” Corvo ran a finger along his bottom lip, then nodded. “Maybe… seven out of ten? How’s the nose?”

  “Sore and probably broken.”

  Corvo nodded. “Make that eight out of ten.”

  “Wait, are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Emily stood and jogged down the dais steps, wincing as she did so.

  Corvo shrugged. “Your Majesty?” he said, feigning ignorance.

  Emily curled a fist and slammed it into Corvo’s chest. He staggered back a little, and coughed.

  Yes. Most likely he deserved that.

  Emily kicked one of the mercenaries at her feet.

  “You sent them!”

  She looked up at Corvo. He looked at her with wide-eyed innocence. Emily’s eye twitched with anger.

  “What, this was some kind of test?” she asked. “You sent a gang of mercenaries to kill me as some kind of test?”

  “You might very well think that, Your Majesty,” Corvo said, “but the office of the Royal Protector is ignorant of such matters and cannot possibly comment.”

  “I… I…” Emily fumed, then she growled and kicked the nearest mercenary again. The poor man moaned and rolled over. “I could have been killed!”

  Corvo smiled. “No, you couldn’t. I was watching.”

  Emily spun around, then she lifted her head to the ceiling and let out a yell of frustration. She turned back to Corvo.

  “You’re moonstruck!”

  “And you were very, very good. Don’t forget that.”

  Emily opened her mouth to yell something else at her father, then she stopped, and sighed.

  Then she smiled. Just a little.

  “Was I?”

  “You were.”

  She glanced at the carnage around her. “I guess I was, wasn’t I?”

  Corvo smiled, and turned on his heel. As he strode toward the doors, he called out over his shoulder.

  “I’ll talk to the Captain of the City Watch, and help him clean up.”

  Then he stopped, and turned back around.

  “Oh, and happy birthday, Your Majesty.”

  He closed the throne room doors behind him. Emily stared at them. She was confused, sore, her nose was bleeding, and there were four unconscious men lying in the throne room.

  Yes, she had done well, hadn’t she?

  With a grin, Emily headed for her private apartments, eager to take that long, hot bath.

  PART THREE

&n
bsp; THE MASQUERADE

  19

  BOYLE MANSION, ESTATE DISTRICT

  15th Day, Month of Darkness, 1851

  “The late Lord Boyle and his lovely wife perhaps best epitomize this privileged class of citizens. Their annual costume ball is the talk of high society, creating ripples throughout Dunwall when one family or another is excluded from the guest list.”

  — THE ESTATE DISTRICT

  Excerpt from a historical overview of the Estate District

  “I must say I’m flattered by the attention,” the old lady in the brilliant-scarlet trouser suit said to the snarling bear in the green cape, standing tall beside her. “To have the Royal Protector lending his services to my humble masquerade is something of an honor!”

  The bear in the cape turned to the red lady and gave a small bow. Her face was hidden completely by an oval mask, on which was painted the grimace of a laughing jester, and she wore a red hat with the brim curled up at the front, which was pinned to a bouffant of gray curly hair.

  The pair stood on the balcony landing of the broad double staircase that overlooked the grand ballroom of the Boyle Mansion.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Lady Boyle,” Corvo said, his voice muffled under the bear mask. “My agents will be discrete—you won’t even know we’re here.”

  “There, young man, you may be correct.”

  Lady Esma Boyle turned her garishly painted mask toward the revelers milling around the ballroom, each clad in a brilliant, multicolored costume, their faces hidden behind a variety of disguises ranging from simple half-masks to full, face-covering ones like Lady Boyle’s. At the extreme end of the spectrum were the more elaborate constructions like Corvo’s bear mask, which covered the entire head.

  Even so, some of the revelers could be easily identified—Corvo had already spotted Lord Curran and his wife, the pair dressed in antique finery of the last century, with big hats with curly brims like Lady Boyle’s, only their eyes covered behind black domino masks. Tradition insisted that the guests remain anonymous and equal, the two footmen manning the door—one of whom was an agent of Corvo’s—announcing each and every arrival with a simple, “Lords, ladies, and gentlemen, may I present a most honored guest!” No names.

  It was all a game, of course—most people knew and recognized one another. The conversation that bubbled up from the hall was lively and loud from the start. Directly underneath the balcony a string quintet played light chamber music, amplified through a square speaker that hung over their heads, covered in red cloth.

  The device was part of Corvo’s plan. While it worked well to amplify the traditional music of the quintet, that was in fact its secondary purpose. Hidden away deep in the mansion was a Warfare Overseer, diligently cranking one of the Music Boxes unearthed from the stores of the Abbey of the Everyone. A flick of a switch and the speaker would cut from the quintet to the ancient, magic-suppressing music of the Overseer’s device.

  Corvo just hoped he wouldn’t have need for it.

  He leaned over the balcony rail and glanced to his left. Down below, two men in half-masks glanced up at the bear, and raised their glasses. One wore a ridiculously curled fake mustache that stuck out at least six inches on either side of his face, the other an innocuous mask that nevertheless hid his face well. It had been the best they could acquire on such short notice.

  All were in place. Corvo had seeded twenty of his finest agents throughout the room, and there were more outside in the gardens. At least a hundred guests were expected at the masquerade, the attendees spilling out from the halls and ballrooms to enjoy the formal gardens, gazebos, and summer houses, lit and heated by electric whale oil lamps.

  A murmur grew among the partygoers, who began gravitating toward the ballroom doors. Corvo watched the crowd.

  Right on time. Next to him, Lady Boyle laid an elderly, but elegantly manicured hand on his sleeve.

  “Oh, the carriages from the palace have arrived,” she said. “I can’t wait to see what the tailors of the court have come up with this year!”

  As she spoke, the footmen began announcing more “honored guests,” and within moments a procession had formed leading from the ballroom doorway over to the left-hand side of the stairs that led up to the balcony. Tradition further dictated that each new arrival make their way up to greet the masquerade’s illustrious hostess.

  The costumes were remarkable, Corvo had to admit. Glittering parrots and peacocks, multicolored foxes in jeweled waistcoats, tigers with rainbow-striped jackets. Some courtiers had come as insect life, too—butterflies with six-foot wings, and one man as a monochrome moth, the remarkable outfit rendered entirely in shades of gray.

  In turn, each of the new guests made their slow way up the stairs and, once in Lady Boyle’s presence, took her hand in their own and lowered themselves in a curtsy or bow as their hostess inclined her head in acknowledgement, the feather in her huge curly-brimmed hat bobbing back and forth. Corvo kept to himself at Lady Boyle’s shoulder, his hands clasped under the green cape, nodding at the guests only if they acknowledged his presence. Discretion was the order of the night.

  At the end of the line was a young, slim woman in minimal, even austere costume of black feathers and sequins, her head enclosed by a close-fitting bird-head mask. As the line of greeters drew closer, Corvo noticed the woman looking out over the ballroom. Whoever she was, she was apparently alone.

  He studied her as she came closer. One of Emily’s friends, perhaps. When the woman in the black sparrow costume reached Lady Boyle she paused, the beak of the mask pointing first at the host and then at Corvo, and then she gave an awkward curtsy, her hand resting on the top of the hostess’s.

  His eyes fell on the young woman’s hand. It was youthful, the skin pale, and smooth. But, unlike every other woman who had paid their respects to the host, this woman’s fingernails were clipped short and were unpainted.

  He thought he recognized those hands—the nails kept short for sparring—but it was the ring that was unmistakable. It was silver, with a large diamond-shaped stop on which were four interlocking keys positioned like the hands of the compass. The ring was subtle and elegant… and one of a pair.

  The twin of the one he wore on his finger.

  The other belonging to the Empress of the Isles.

  Corvo wasn’t sure if Lady Boyle recognized the ring, or even noticed it. If she did, she didn’t give any indication. She merely nodded, and released the hand. Emily stood tall, nodded again at Lady Boyle and then at Corvo, before moving along the balcony to head down the stairs on the other side. She disappeared into the crowd.

  He waited a few moments as Lady Boyle continued greeting the new arrivals. Glancing down at the main doors, Corvo saw that the line of new arrivals now extended out past the footmen. Lady Boyle was going to be meeting and greeting for quite a while yet. So he laid a hand on her shoulder, bringing his bear mask close to her ear.

  “If you will excuse me, Lady Boyle,” he whispered. “Would you like me to get you a drink?”

  Lady Boyle laughed behind her mask.

  “Young man, you read my mind.”

  Corvo nodded and, making his excuses, cut through the line of people. As he headed down the stairs, Lady Boyle called out after him.

  “And make it a strong one!”

  Corvo lifted a hand over his shoulder to acknowledge he had heard her as he trotted down the stairs.

  He needed to tell his agents that the party had an unexpected guest.

  * * *

  He spotted Emily from the big double doors that led out to one of the enclosed, “secret” gardens that surrounded the Boyle Mansion. The garden here was on two levels—a large area with fine enameled garden furniture, from which a curve of steps led down to a long, rectangular area which was used for archery and croquet. Already, both were scattered with costumed guests enjoying the warm, pleasant glow of the whale oil heaters.

  Corvo scanned the area, his agents in play—four out here—discretely i
gnoring him. Emily herself stood alone by the balustrade that separated the upper garden from the lower. She had a tall glass in her hand, filled with bubbling wine.

  Ducking into the doorjamb, he watched as Emily, ignored by the other guests locked deep in conversation, glanced around, her black sparrow mask turning this way and that, then quietly tipped half of her drink out into the shrubbery. She then raised the glass close to her mask, her elbow balanced on her other arm, and watched the crowd.

  Corvo frowned, then ducked back into the ballroom. He made his way over to a man dressed as a white lion. Passing by, he leaned his bear mask in closer.

  “Black sparrow in the garden,” he said. “Keep watch.”

  The white lion muttered something which might have been “Right, lad,” but it was muffled behind the elaborate and heavy mask. By the time Corvo had walked through the crowd and had reached the other side of the room, the white lion had vanished.

  He frowned again beneath his mask. Having Emily here was far from ideal, but at least it meant he was near her side.

  20

  BOYLE MANSION (CLOSED WING), ESTATE DISTRICT

  15th Day, Month of Darkness, 1851

  “All there is in my mind is meat, death, bones and song. The terrifying songs, they come to me in my sleep now.”

  — MEAT, DEATH, BONES AND SONG

  Excerpt from a Butcher’s journal

  The corridor was long and wide, paneled in a rich brown wood studded with ornate chandeliers in escutcheons down its entire length. But the passage—a long gallery—was dark, the chandeliers unlit. Instead, what light there was came in through the large windows set high in the walls on either side of the gallery, the bright moon illuminating a square area at one end of the gallery in a pale, monochrome light.

  A woman danced in the light. She wore an elegant trouser suit of silver and white, the sleeves puffed from shoulder to elbow, the neckline low. The woman’s hair was the same color as her clothes, and was long and straight, reaching nearly to her waist. She was barefoot, and she spun in the light, her arms outstretched as though to hold a dance partner who wasn’t there.