Dishonored--The Corroded Man
Page 23
“Lady Boyle,” Corvo said, crouching down, “I need your help. Can you hear me? Esma?”
Lady Boyle opened one eye and sniffed loudly. “Of course I can hear you. What am I, deaf?”
Corvo couldn’t stop himself smiling. “Zhukov said he needed Lydia to lead them to a vault—do you know what they were talking about? Do you know where this vault is?”
Lady Boyle gulped and nodded her head. “Yes,” she said, her thin tongue wetting her lips. “They must be talking about the vault under the house. It was built to house Hiram and Waverley’s private collection. Nobody has been down there for years though.”
Corvo frowned. “Private collection of what?” He wracked his brains, trying to think of what Zhukov could possibly want to steal from the house.
Lady Boyle laughed dryly. “At the moment, a private collection of nothing much. The only thing down there is the bones of an old leviathan. Biggest one ever caught, so I’m told. Can’t stand the sight of it myself. You get to my age, old bones cease to hold much interest.”
Corvo felt a chill crawl up his spine.
Old bones, and not just any. The bones of a leviathan—the legendary deep-dwelling whales that some people didn’t think existed. Creatures that were said to possess natural, magical powers all of their own.
He glanced down at Lady Boyle. Leaning against the wall, she looked like what she was—a tiny, old woman with a broken arm and maybe more broken bones besides.
“Can you tell me where it is?” he asked.
Esma laughed. “Sure, get me some parchment, I’ll draw you a map.”
Corvo frowned. “I really need your help. They have the Empress.”
Esma nodded, the humor evaporating from her face. “I know. It’ll take too long to describe the path. I’ll have to show you.” At this, she held her breath and pushed up from the floor, but she made little progress. Corvo moved to help, but she waved him away with an annoyed hiss. Then she dropped back against the wall and sighed.
“Okay, you’ll need to carry me.”
Corvo needed no further invitation. He slid his hands underneath Lady Boyle and stood. She was small and light, impossibly light, as if there was nothing inside the scarlet trouser suit. He couldn’t help but remember carrying another Lady Boyle on the night of another masquerade, more than a decade ago.
“Ready?” he asked.
Esma nodded, then she pointed through the double doors set under the balcony.
“It’s that way.”
Corvo called out for his agents, and at once Jameson appeared from the crowd, dressed in a once-immaculate white suit now stained with blood and dirt.
Together they headed deeper into the house.
25
THE VAULT BENEATH THE BOYLE MANSION, ESTATE DISTRICT
15th Day, Month of Darkness, 1851
“There are some depraved rituals which not even the most adept can describe, the very act of recording the atrocity of their nature enough to corrode the mind of they who dare approach the task. It is said that even the whispering of such eldritch spells weakens the tether that links this world to the Void, the very connection that we draw upon in order to command the magicks of the ages.”
— THE METAPHYSIKA MYSTERIUM
Excerpt from a longer, banned,
work on supernatural ritual
The Boyle Mansion was a maze and while Esma’s directions were perfect, the need to carry her slowed them down.
The doors of the vault were open. They were too late.
Corvo led the way in and gently settled Esma on the shallow stairs that led down to the main chamber.
The skeleton of the leviathan dominated the room, suspended from the ceiling by chains. Only the back half of the specimen was supported, however. The entire front of the skeleton, from the front flippers to the enormous skull, lay on the floor. The skull sat at an angle, with half of the gargantuan lower jaw missing. Beside the skull were scattered a collection of black iron bolts and angled plates.
Something else caught Corvo’s attention.
The floor around the skull was covered with writing and drawings, a spider’s web of lines and symbols rendered in white chalk. Positioned at intervals were four orange candles, extinguished but burned nearly down to the flagstones, their wicks still smoldering, the remnants of blue smoke drifting upward and smelling sickly sweet.
In front of the skull lay a bundle of something soaked in a red liquid that pooled out across the floor. The skull was lying in the liquid, and as Corvo got closer he could see that the bone had begun to take it up like a wick, while the white chalk lines on the floor remained uncovered. It was almost as if the drawings were somehow repelling the liquid.
It was blood. A lot of blood. The thought registered in Corvo’s mind, followed quickly by another.
Emily!
He ran over to the bundle, crouching down in the blood. He reached out, then paused. It was the body of a woman, but whoever it was, she had been wearing white and silver, not black. Corvo rolled the body over, only for the arm to come away in his hand. He stared at it for a single, incredulous moment, then placed it on the floor next to the body. He reached over, rolling the body, feeling the way it moved in ways that it shouldn’t. When it was lying face up, he peeled back the long, red-stained hair that adhered slickly to the corpse’s face.
The wide, dead eyes of Lady Lydia Boyle stared up at him.
Her lips were frozen in a small smile.
Corvo stood. She had been partially dismembered—one arm severed at the shoulder, the other still attached, but missing everything from the elbow down. The killer had gone to work on the torso, too, partially dissecting it, the flesh and organs cut and pushed to one side, the ribs cracked and pulled open like a door. The breastbone had been cut out, and on the right side of the body there was only one rib remaining.
Corvo wiped his hands on the front of his clothes as best he could, but the blood had stained his skin. He kept his back to Jameson and Lady Esma.
“Are you going to just stand there feeling sorry for yourself, young man, or are you going to let us in on the news? Do we still have an Empress or not?” Lady Esma Boyle’s voice was strong and loud, but Corvo could hear it crack, just a little. The Boyle Matriarch was doing her best, while her world fell apart.
He stepped away from the body and turned to her, ready to tell her what he’d found. But as he looked up, Esma pursed her lips and nodded.
“That thing isn’t Emily, is it?” she said. “It’s Lydia.” She paused. “Or what’s left of her.”
Then Lady Esma Boyle dropped her head, tucking her chin into her chest, and she didn’t speak again. Corvo sighed as Jameson came to his side, his gaze fixed on the gruesome remains. Jameson took a deep breath.
“What did they do to her?” he whispered, leaning close.
Corvo frowned. “Bones. They wanted her bones.” He turned and walked over to the complex web of chalk drawings on the floor. The whale’s skull was sitting in the center of the space, but in front of it, Corvo noticed another, smaller drawing—an octagon, formed by the intersecting lines of triangles and squares. In the center of the octagon, the stone flags were blackened, and there was a charcoal-like residue on it.
Dropping to his knees, he picked up the largest piece. It was light, fragile, the burned-out remains of more bone. The corroded bonecharms Zhukov was able to carve were potent, yes, but their power was fleeting, ephemeral. They were limited, the highly unstable objects disintegrating after use.
The crumbling, carbonized shards fell to the floor, and, wiping his hands, he stood. He glanced over at Lady Esma Boyle, who was huddled against the column, her shoulders shaking, her face buried behind her gray curls.
“Look after her,” Corvo said. “Call back the agents from the slaughterhouse. They’re needed here. I need you to make sure that everyone at the masquerade is attended to—see to any injuries, and get everyone home, where they belong. The man in the white lion costume—his name is Azariah. H
e’s an associate. He’ll help, and he has agents of his own here.
“I also need you to spread a counter-narrative—that it wasn’t the Empress who was here tonight, it was one of her chambermaids. A lookalike. Leave no room for doubt. We need full deniability. I’m sure you can come up with something.”
Jameson nodded. “And what will you do?”
Corvo lifted his hands, flexing his bloodstained fingers.
“I’m going to get Emily back,” he said. “And I’m going to finish this, once and for all.”
INTERLUDE
DABOKVA, TYVIA
19th Day, Month of Earth, 1837
“While people in the lower city of Caltain share much with their nearest neighbors in Morley, most Tyvians are a breed apart, shaped by generations of life in the inhospitable cold. Austere and regal, Tyvians are proud of their customs, food, and history, and have little concern for the Isles to the south.”
— THE ISLE OF TYVIA
Excerpt from a volume on Tyvian geography and culture
Zhukov strode into the People’s Chamber in the Citadel of Dabokva, the vast, domed building that sat at the heart of Tyvia’s capital.
The room was huge, the walls a dark gray granite, the stone flecked with gold that caught the light from the globes held at the end of outstretched bronze arms that lined the room. The bronze arms were exactly that—gargantuan sculptures of men’s limbs, the muscles bulging as they cradled the light. The effect was one of epic grandeur—of strength, not just of purpose, but of the body itself. The design of the chamber said that Tyvia was a harsh land, but the people who made it their home were made of even sterner stuff.
Zhukov smiled, pleased with the way his boots hammered loudly against the smooth, hard floor, announcing his approach to the Presidium as they sat at the large, circular table that occupied most of the room. It was situated directly beneath the circle of the citadel dome high above—nearly two hundred feet, in fact, the entire design of the People’s Chamber designed to diminish those who met within it, emphasizing the unimportance of individuals, reminding them that the world was big and that they were insignificant.
In Tyvia, all were equal.
Some, however, were more equal than others.
Beyond the Presidium’s table, the far wall of the People’s Chamber was different from the rest of the room. It was a giant panel bordered on each side by columns in a bright red stone, richly veined with sparkling gold and silver threads. These represented the riches of Tyvia, locked away in the hard stone of the country, while the red represented the blood which was given by the people as they wrested control of this wealth, carving out their own destiny in the Empire.
The portrait that filled the space between the two columns dominated the People’s Chamber, demanding attention. It stood one hundred feet high, and was half again as wide. It wasn’t a painting but a mosaic, hundreds of thousands of minute colored tiles forming the head, shoulders, and upper torso of Tyvia’s first Hero of the State, Karol Topek. He was resplendent in his black-and-red military coat, his stern, bearded face gazing importantly into the middle distance, his right hand clutching his belt, his left raised as he pledged allegiance to his beloved country.
Zhukov smirked at Topek’s image. True enough, he was a great hero, a founder of their nation-state. But he was long, long dead.
It was time for Tyvia to worship another idol.
“Gentlemen,” Zhukov said, sweeping off his hat and bowing before the Presidium. The circular table was full, the assembly of councilmen complete. This was an unusual occurrence—while the Presidium had absolute power over the affairs of Tyvia, the real power actually rested in just the three most senior members of the council—the High Judges—seated at the side of the table under the looming image of Topek.
The rest of the Presidium had to turn in their seats to greet Zhukov, but the High Judges remained unmoving, their eyes fixed firmly on the newcomer.
There was a moment of silence. Zhukov kept his expression flat but pleasant, even as he considered each person seated there.
Fools, all of them. Eleven men and five women who sat in the big cold room, saying nothing but “yes” to the three High Judges. A council of sixteen who were supposed to represent the people of Tyvia, but who did nothing of the sort.
Certainly, their election to this chamber was democratic, and voting was compulsory for the entire adult population of their vast island. But given that there was only one political party, however, which fielded only one candidate in each of the districts, the result was always a foregone conclusion.
There was silence in the chamber for a moment, then a shuffling as the members of the council turned back around in their seats, all eyes now back on the High Judges.
Zhukov replaced the hat on his head and raised his left hand, mirroring the gesture in the great portrait of Karol Topek. Zhukov gave the pledge of allegiance, as was customary when invited to the Presidium, while his eyes moved from one High Judge to the next.
First there was Secretary Cushing, an old man whose days were surely coming to an end and whose voice had never once been heard at any meeting Zhukov could remember. In a way, this made him more worrisome. That he was one of the High Judges meant that he possessed real power, and clearly he had the ear of his comrades. But the fact that he never spoke, either in public or at these closed meetings, made him unreadable, inscrutable.
Seated next to Cushing was Secretary Taren, the one member of the group who could claim lineage from the great Karol Topek. She was younger than her colleagues, but not by much, and in her watery-blue eyes there burned a light, the fire of passion, of dedication. Of the knowledge that she had power, and she could wield it. Taren was outwardly fierce, her expression as stony as the granite walls.
Finally, there was Secretary Kalin. As with the other High Judges, there was nothing to distinguish him from the rest of the Presidium council. No special insignia, no unique uniform—like the others, he wore the simple black-and-red, high-necked tunic that marked his rank merely as “Secretary for the People of Tyvia.” And there was nothing at the circular table either that indicated he, or his two comrades, were of particular note.
But Zhukov knew the secrets of the People’s Chamber, and the way the Presidium worked. Secretary Kalin was seated directly under Topek’s left hand. The hand raised in allegiance. Secretary Kalin’s position—his authority—was very, very clear.
“Friend Zhukov,” Kalin said, gesturing for him to step closer to the table. “Thank you for coming at such short notice. The Presidium knows how important your work is across the great nation-state of ours, and we know that this work can only be interrupted for reasons which are themselves of equal or greater importance.
Pompous ass. Typical Kalin. Never used one word when ten would do. The Presidium should serve a nice Tyvian red with their meetings, Zhukov mused. He couldn’t imagine sitting through an entire session without a drink to take his mind off things.
Aloud, he said, “I thank the Secretaries,” and he gave another bow. “I am here only to learn how I can better serve Tyvia.”
He’ll like that. Kalin was justly proud of his country, and equally proud not just of its legacy and history, but its ideals.
Oh yes. Kalin was a true believer.
The Secretary’s lips twitched into a small smile.
“I’m afraid I must deliver bad news to you,” Kalin said. “You have been traveling for days, so will be a little… out of touch, shall we say.”
Zhukov shifted on his feet.
“News, Friend Kalin?”
Kalin nodded. “We have had a dispatch from Dunwall. There has been something of a… scandal.”
“Ah,” Zhukov said. Scandal? Interesting, perhaps, but idle gossip was hardly something that caught the attention of the Presidium. He glanced around at the others.
Taren shifted in her seat, pulling down the front of her tunic to smooth it. Then she linked her fingers together and leaned on the meeting table.
Zhukov felt the air leave his lungs. He managed to suppress the resulting cough, instead lifting a trembling hand to his mouth as he cleared his throat.
Kalin was watching. This time his smile grew in size.
“A tragedy, I’m sure you’ll agree, Friend Zhukov.”
“I… yes,” he said. “A tragedy indeed, Friend Kalin.”
Kalin pursed his lips. “While the Empire of the Isles includes Tyvia within its domain, we have been very fortunate to enjoy a… special relationship with Dunwall, a certain autonomy granted as a consequence of the Morley Insurrection. The Empress, and indeed the Emperors before her, have always viewed Tyvia as a friend and ally.”
Zhukov lifted his chin. His throat was dry. He licked his lips.
Still Kalin watched him.
He knew. He knew.
Kalin lifted an eyebrow. “Well, Friend Zhukov? Don’t you agree?”
Zhukov bowed his head. “Indeed, Friend Kalin.” He paused. “Forgive me, I’m… well, I’m appalled by this news. When did this happen?”
“Yesterday,” Secretary Taren said. “The news has not been officially announced, but we learned through our spies in Dunwall mere hours after the event.”
Spies in Dunwall? This was news to Zhukov. News that merely helped confirm his suspicions. The Presidium wasn’t here to tell him that the political landscape of their neighbor—and technical ruler—had shifted.
No, they had summoned him for another reason.