So he had said, anyway. Galia had heard a lot of things at the Golden Cat and knew that the tales told to the courtesans late in the night were often tall, but that one had stuck in her mind.
Perhaps he had been telling the truth, because here were the bones of just such a beast.
“Oh, this old thing?”
Lydia weaved her way to the skeleton, dragging her feet on the floor. When she was close enough, she reached up and laid a hand on the tip of the skeleton’s flipper. “It was a gift from the Lord Regent to his mistress, dear old sister Waverley. The story is that it was caught by the ESS Keeper on some terrible expedition, when they lost a bathysphere. There was a fellow in it, and he went down too far and the chains broke. As the men in the ship tried to rescue him, something came up from the depths—something very big and very angry. Perhaps the bell had gone down too far, and had disturbed that which should not have been disturbed, and now the things that lived down there were coming up to teach them all a lesson.”
Lydia looked up at the skeleton as she spoke, a smile playing on her lips, her eyes moving along the great beast.
“They harpooned it, but that wasn’t enough. It pulled the ship along for days, farther and farther out. The whalers say it took them so far out they could see the shores of Pandyssia, though nobody believes that. But the ship was very nearly wrecked. When it came back to Dunwall, the whaling frame was missing, torn off by the high seas. Not that it would have been big enough to hold the leviathan. They had won their struggle in the end, and had dragged the beast behind the ship, the body so heavy the ship was taking water in.”
Galia frowned. “I don’t remember hearing about that.”
Lydia’s head snapped around to face her. Her expression showed anger, then the old woman’s features softened and she shrugged.
“Well, not many did, did they? A signal was sent ahead of the ship, that they’d caught something big. The Lord Regent heard about it and instructed them to come in under cover of darkness. I think he wanted to keep the creature out of the hands of the Academy of Natural Philosophy. He wanted this prize for himself, the centerpiece of his own private collection. To show his generosity he gifted it to Waverly, a priceless artifact to be the envy of all the aristocracy. He even paid for this vault to be built. The first grand design of his private collection.”
Lydia’s shoulders slumped. “Then the regency was deposed and all the plans came to nothing. This beast has been sitting here ever since.” She looked up at the skeleton. “Perhaps Esma liked to keep it as a reminder of our beloved sister.”
Galia sniffed loudly. “So what does this have to do with us?” She walked up to Zhukov, who stood silently at the foot of the steps, his head tilted upward. “You said you needed my help to steal something that was locked away in the Boyle Mansion vault. Well?” She waved at the room. “Look around, boss. This is the vault. We’re standing in it. So how about we cut with the history lessons and get down to business. What do we need to take?”
Zhukov turned his red eyes to his acolyte, and his laugh once more sounded from deep within his scarf-covered face.
“Have you heard nothing, Galia?” he asked. “Open your eyes.” Then he turned and pointed at the giant skeleton. “I need you to steal that.”
Galia blinked at her master, then laughed, and walked up to the skeleton. She reached up and slapped the flipper bones. Maybe she hit it too hard, because her fingers tingled afterward.
“Are you moonstruck like your friend here?” she said, casting a sour glance at Lydia, who stood smiling on the other side of the artifact. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this thing is a little big. It must weigh bloody tons! And all you got is me, an unconscious Empress, and an old woman with no shoes who doesn’t even know what day it is.”
“Don’t worry, Galia,” Zhukov said. “I don’t need all of it. Just one of the jawbones will serve my purpose.”
Galia walked to stand underneath the skull, and craned her neck to look directly up.
“Oh, well, that’s fine, why didn’t you say so?” she muttered sarcastically. Just a jawbone. Right. Just a thirty-foot curve of ivory currently suspended twelve feet from the floor.
Zhukov pointed to the chains that held the skeleton up.
“See if you can bring the front of the skeleton down,” he said. “Then you can work on removing the jawbone.”
Galia frowned. “You’re serious about this?”
“Never more so.”
She glanced up again. The individual components of the skeleton were held together by iron bolts and plates… If she could work out how to lower the skull down on the chains, it didn’t look as if it would be too much trouble to get one of the jawbones loose. But the thing was still the size of a boat. There was no way they’d be able to carry it out, even if they could lift the thing between them in the first place.
Galia made her thoughts on the matter known to Zhukov, but her words trailed off as, for the first time that she had seen, he began to unbutton his greatcoat.
“I have prepared for this,” Zhukov said. “This is why I had you steal from the crypt at Brigmore, and retrieve the parchments from the house. I have a method by which we can transpose the jawbone, and ourselves, back to the factory.”
With his coat unbuttoned, Zhukov pulled one lapel aside. Galia caught a glimpse of the corroded bonecharms—the ones she had seen down in the basement workshop, back at the slaughterhouse. They hung on the inside of the coat, stitched into fabric.
And… were they smoking?
As she watched, she was sure she saw fingers of gray smoke slowly waft up. A moment later they were gone.
From inside the deep pockets of his coat, Zhukov pulled four short, fat candles, their surfaces pockmarked as though they were beeswax, though each was bright orange in color. As well as the candles, he was carrying a stick of white chalk.
Buttoning his coat up, he knelt on the floor, chalk in hand, and began to write on the stone flags. Galia frowned as she watched, but she was unable to read or understand what Zhukov was drawing.
There were geometric shapes, circles and squares and triangles, each overlapping the other or connected by arcs or tangents. Zhukov’s hand flew as he inscribed the sigils on the floor. After a few minutes, one complex section was complete, so that triangles and circles intersected with mathematical precision to form a central, five-sided shape, surrounded by a mass of inscriptions.
In that central point, Zhukov placed the first of the candles. Then he stood and moved around to the side of the leviathan, ignoring Galia, stepping around Lydia as the old woman began another slow, circular dance in the silence.
Galia cocked her head. “What’s with the drawings?”
Zhukov didn’t look up as he worked. “I told you, I can transpose the jawbone back to the factory.” Then he paused and looked up. He pointed at Lydia with the chalk. “I will need to carve some extra bonecharms. The witchcharm from Brigmore will help stabilize the transfer, but I had hoped to carve more. I will need all the extra power upon which I can draw.”
Galia pursed her lips and glanced at Lydia.
“Ah… okay?”
Zhukov returned to his work and he didn’t look up again.
“For bonecharms I need the raw material—and there it is.” He raised a hand quickly to indicate Lady Lydia Boyle again.
Suddenly Galia realized what the boss was talking about. Her lips curled into a sneer, and she nodded.
“As you wish.”
She drew her long knife, wiping the ten-inch blade on her leg. Then she raised it up, and turned it over in front of her face, as if she was checking to make certain it was up to the task.
And then, as Lady Lydia Boyle danced and sang to the music in her head, Galia stepped up to the old woman, taking her hand. Lydia was startled, but then she smiled, and the two of them circled and swayed for a turn or two.
Then Galia smiled and drove the knife into Lydia’s chest, the blade sliding easily between the ribs, a
nd pushed as hard as she could.
24
BOYLE MANSION, ESTATE DISTRICT
15th Day, Month of Darkness, 1851
“Throughout the natural world there are ripples that we can barely perceive with our senses, an Ancient Music permeating everything as a fundamental structural rule. Through it, you can work wonders without violating the natural world or begging favors from unfriendly spirits. Throughout my studies I have found a seventeen-note scale derived from this phenomenon, and with the right equipment those notes allow for astonishing effects. Not the least of these is the ability to calm the turbulence originating in the Void, which we attribute to the Outsider.”
— THE ANCIENT MUSIC
Excerpt from a longer work
Corvo lifted his head and glanced at the white lion held at knifepoint beside him. His guard noticed the movement, and used it as an excuse to push his prisoner’s head down and stretch his arm painfully back. Corvo gasped. A moment later the guard got tired, or bored, and relaxed his grip.
Sucking in a breath, Corvo tried to focus. The discordant music rolled around the room and the Mark of the Outsider on his hand burned with electric fire as it fought against the interference that cut it off from the Void.
They’d lost, and lost badly. They hadn’t been outnumbered at the masquerade, but they had been out-maneuvered. The Ancient Music that Corvo had planned on being their salvation, preventing the Whalers from using their powers, had turned into their downfall. Using the power of Zhukov’s corroded bonecharm, the Whalers had easily overcome their opponents while Corvo himself had been unable to use his gifts, the power locked away from his mind.
Zhukov and Galia were ten steps ahead of them. Whatever they were planning, they were getting close to realizing their goal. And more than that, they now had a hostage.
Emily.
Corvo closed his eyes and cursed himself for being so stupid. What they were being kept alive for, Corvo didn’t know, but for the moment he was grateful. Whatever it was that Zhukov was doing, however, their time was almost up. When the man got what he came for, he’d likely give the order to slaughter everyone in the mansion.
“Young man, would you please turn that racket off.”
Corvo opened his eyes and slowly looked up. After her sister had vanished with the others, the Whalers had dragged Lady Esma Boyle downstairs, but they at least had the decency to save the old woman from lying on the floor.
Underneath the balcony, the musicians had been pushed out to make room for her. She’d been allowed to sit, perched on a red velvet sofa that had been dragged out from the side of the room. A Whaler held a pistol on her. Her mask was off, as was her hat, her mass of gray curls cascading down around her face. It was bruised purple on one side, a trickle of blood drying at the corner of her mouth. But despite her ordeal, the matriarch of the Boyle dynasty sat with her back perfectly straight.
Dignity under adversity.
The Whaler standing guard didn’t give any indication that he was listening to her. The Music Box was the key—it was keeping Corvo from using his powers. There was no way the Whalers were turning it off until they were good and ready—if they could even find the man who was operating the box.
Corvo shifted on his knees. This time his guard didn’t pay him any heed.
What he needed was a distraction. It didn’t have to be big. It didn’t need to buy him much time—two seconds, maybe three. After the chaos of the fight, the Whalers had left Corvo and the others unbound, confident that keeping them on the floor with blades at their necks was enough to keep the prisoners subdued.
Lady Esma was giving the man standing over her the evil eye, her chin held high, the elderly skin at her jowls drawn tight.
Corvo cleared his throat—loudly—and was rewarded with a short, sharp shove on the back of his neck. But as his head bounced up, he shot a glance at her.
She looked right at him.
Good.
Corvo waggled his eyebrows, and, with an exaggerated movement of his eyes, tried to indicate Lady Boyle’s guard. Esma frowned a little, her eyes moving between Corvo and her guard. She adjusted herself on the sofa, but didn’t do anything more.
No one had noticed, so he took a chance. He mouthed the instruction at Esma, while rolling his eyes at her guard. He really hoped she would get the message.
She did. Her nostrils flared and she gave a slight nod, then she looked up at her guard again.
“Do you have any idea who I am, young man?”
The Whaler ignored her.
“I am Lady Esma Boyle. My family have owned half of Dunwall since your wretched great-grandparents were tilling the soil in the little inbred village where they met.”
Nothing. Corvo wasn’t sure if that statement was true, but it didn’t matter. Esma was just getting started.
“In point of fact, my family name is even older than that of the Kaldwins.” The color began to rise in her cheeks, her pale, thin skin taking on a hue not dissimilar to the scarlet of her silk trouser suit. “And you dare to come into this home and molest my guests so?” Her voice was raised, to be heard over the cacophonous screech of the Ancient Music, and she ramped the volume up even more. “I don’t know what you ruffians are planning on doing in my house, but I demand that you leave at once!”
The Whaler shuffled and glanced back at the others. Corvo could hear the creak of leather as the guard behind him shifted position.
“At once, do you hear me?” Lady Boyle stood up and, to Corvo’s amazement, she actually stamped her foot. “At once!”
“Shut up and stay put!” The Whaler gave her a shove. Lady Boyle tipped back onto the sofa, bouncing on the cushion, and used that momentum to get back onto her feet.
“How dare you lay lands on me. The Empress shall have your entrails decorating Kaldwin’s Bridge before the night is over, you scoundrel!”
The Whaler shoved her again, harder, and this time Lady Boyle cried out and fell, missing the sofa entirely, landing awkwardly on one elbow. She rolled on the floor, her face contorted in pain.
Come on, come on, come on.
Corvo’s luck was in.
As Lady Esma’s guard walked over to her prone form, his guard stepped out to join his companion. Corvo wasted no time. In one second he was on his feet. In two, he lunged and grabbed the gun hand of the guard standing over the white lion, wrenching the pistol out of the surprised Whaler’s hand before throwing an elbow into the man’s face, sending him careening backward.
The room broke out into chaos, the Whalers springing into action, the two men over by Lady Boyle spinning around, weapons at the ready. Corvo leapt sideways, reaching the left-hand staircase and, in one fluid motion, bringing the pistol around to bear on the two guards by Lady Boyle.
He fired.
The speaker suspended below the balcony swung on its cord, the wooden lattice front shattered by Corvo’s shot. The Ancient Music stuttered, then stopped altogether.
The Mark of the Outsider pulsed on his hand as the interference faded, the power flowing through him like sap flowing in a tree, returning from the Void. It was like being plunged into a warm bath—blood warm, body warm. For a second he couldn’t tell where he ended and the world began, as clawing fingers from elsewhere reached out and caressed the Mark of the Outsider that blazed in blinding blue glory behind Corvo’s closed eyes.
He stood. He blinked behind one Whaler, took him out with a twist that snapped the man’s neck. He blinked again, and again, crisscrossing the hall, crisscrossing the Void as he stepped between the seconds of the clock. Time running as slow as treacle, he dispatched the Whalers one by one.
However, he didn’t have much energy to call on—he’d spent many, many minutes under the spell of the Ancient Music and his reserves were down. The more he used, the weaker he became. There were four vials of Addermire Solution in his tunic, but he didn’t want to use any of them until the last possible moment.
He blinked again, once more, and his vision began to spa
rk with black dots. Time came crashing in like a concussion wave, knocking him to his knees. He opened his eyes and looked up.
And found he was not alone. With the Whalers in disarray, his agents released themselves and overpowered their captors, the masquerade guests cowering and screaming in the corners of the hall as the two groups fought hand to hand.
Then a Whaler appeared in front of him, materializing out of the air, a gun in his hand.
A gun pointed at Corvo’s face.
He watched as the Whaler’s finger curled on the trigger. And then he watched as the Whaler staggered, the gun dropping from his hand as the tip of a blade appeared in the center of his chest, pushing through in a spray of bright, arterial blood. The Whaler dropped to the floor and the white lion stepped forward, holding his hand out.
Corvo took it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. The White Lion released his hand then yanked his mask off and tossed it to the floor. Slackjaw blew his cheeks out, his face flushed.
“Thanks,” Corvo said.
Slackjaw gave a breathless nod, and looked around the room. “Looks like we’ve got this. You need to get after the Empress. Here, take this. As much as I’d love a little swig, I think it’ll do you more good.”
From somewhere inside the white lion costume, Slackjaw brought out a glass vial filled with a blue liquid. Addermire Solution.
Corvo took the vial thankfully, pulling the stopper off with his teeth and draining it in a single gulp. The effects were immediate, his strength returning, a warmth spreading out all across his body. Even his vision seemed sharper, brighter, his thoughts somehow clearer.
He was ready, and his own reserves of restorative elixir remained untouched.
“Thanks, Azariah,” Corvo said. “I’ll remember this.”
Slackjaw gave Corvo a tired slap on the shoulder. “Now I really am starting to think about that little vineyard again,” he said with a laugh. “You go get ’em, lad. And hey, you remembered my name for once. Wonders will never cease.”
Corvo squeezed Slackjaw’s forearm, then turned and headed over to where Lady Esma Boyle lay on the floor. She had managed to bring herself up to lean on the wall, but she looked pale and was breathing heavily. She cradled one arm in the other. Corvo had seen the way she had fallen, cracking the elbow.
Dishonored--The Corroded Man Page 22