He could leave. He could walk out. The People’s Chamber was unguarded—the whole citadel was unguarded. That was the point. Nobody here had any power or was in any way important—theoretically. Anyone in Dabokva, anyone in Tyvia, could walk in and take up a seat at the table.
All were equal.
It was just that some were more equal than others, and anyone daring to enter the People’s Chamber without invitation would find themselves leaving it in a box.
Zhukov cleared his throat again and bowed to the Presidium.
“Friends, thank you for summoning me to hear this tragic news firsthand,” he said, keeping his voice controlled. “But if you will excuse me, I have my duties to perform in the service of our nation.”
He could leave. Walk out. Then run. He could be at the docks, be out of Tyvia before the Presidium had a chance to make their move.
“We understand, Friend Zhukov,” Kalin said. “But I’m afraid we must relieve you of those duties. You have served the People well.”
Zhukov smiled faintly.
Was it his imagination, or was there a sound from behind him, somewhere out beyond the towering doors of the People’s Chamber?
“As, I believe, you have served Empress Jessamine Kaldwin,” Kalin added.
Zhukov barked a nervous laugh, his forehead creasing in confusion.
They knew. Of course they knew.
And now his ally—the Empress—was dead.
And he would be next.
“It is unfortunate that the murder of the Empress has spoiled your plans, Friend Zhukov, but you may rest assured that your actions had not gone unnoticed. Our spies have been watching you for a long, long time. We know about your plans with Jessamine—about her vision to bring Tyvia under more direct control. In fact, that was why we sent you to Yaro in the first place, to give us time to search your apartments.”
Kalin raised a hand, as though to pre-empt an imagined interruption. Zhukov, however, remained silent.
“Yes,” Kalin continued, “we know about your little hidey-holes. As I say, you have been watched for a long time. You are a Hero of the State. You are—you were—a valuable piece of property, and surely if you have valuable property, you would expect it to be watched, night and day. Watched, or locked away.”
The charade was up. Zhukov turned on his heel and ran for the double doors, then careened to a halt, sliding on the smooth floor as they swung open. The men who walked into the People’s Chamber were dressed in featureless black, their faces hidden behind flat, opaque black metal masks.
Zhukov recognized them at once for what they were.
Operators.
Tyvian law stated that every citizen was equal, and that none could ever act against another—the perfect vision of an ideal that could never, truly, be accomplished. Yet it didn’t stop the Presidium from trying. To sidestep the law, they used Operators—anonymous agents, their citizenship stripped, their identities concealed behind the flat black masks.
Operators were never seen. They came at night. They made people disappear. But here they were, standing in the People’s Chamber. The Presidium was ready. Of course Zhukov couldn’t run. That was a fool’s dream.
He spun around and marched back to the table. He gesticulated toward the picture of Karol Topek.
“You can’t do this,” Zhukov spat. “I’m a Hero of the State. I am beyond the authority of this farcical council.”
At this, Taren leaned in toward Kalin. On the other side, the ever-silent Cushing did likewise.
“See how he reveals himself,” Taren said in a ridiculous stage whisper. Kalin smiled, nodding, while a murmur of agreement swept around the circle of leaders. “See how he speaks out against Tyvia.”
Footsteps behind him. Arms on his.
The Operators held him now. Now they would make him disappear.
“Friend Zhukov,” Kalin said. “We thank you for your service. You have given Tyvia balance, allowing the ship of state to ride turbulent seas, but we now hereby renounce your position as Hero of the State. For conspiracy against the people, we sentence you to a lifetime of freedom.”
Freedom. Such a euphemism.
Such a farce.
“Take him away.”
The Operators pulled at his arms. Zhukov pulled back. He knew where they were taking him.
To the interior, the seemingly endless icy wastes that formed the heart of the country.
To his “freedom”—freedom to work in the labor camps, freedom to die in the snow. There were no walls at the camp. Everyone sentenced to work there was officially innocent, pardoned by the state.
Because nobody ever returned.
“Freedom?” Zhukov asked, as the black-masked men began to drag him toward the doors. “You know nothing of freedom, friends. I was going to bring balance to this state. Do you hear me? Balance! I would have been more than a Hero of the State. I would be remembered. Remembered!”
Zhukov pulled against the Operators, but they were stronger than he was and their grip was firm. He had no choice—either he walked out with them, or was carried out. It made no difference to the Presidium.
He was dragged out through the giant doors, which closed after him, and the last he saw of Tyvia’s ruling council was the portrait of Karol Topek, hand raised in allegiance, his eyes gazing toward a bright and hopeful future.
That would have been me, Zhukov thought.
That would have been me.
PART FOUR
THE BLACK MIRROR
26
GREAVES AUXILIARY WHALE SLAUGHTERHOUSE 5, SLAUGHTERHOUSE ROW, DUNWALL
15th Day, Month of Darkness, 1851
“Beware, for history is written, not by the vanquished, but by the victor.”
— TYVIAN PROVERB
Excerpt from a volume on
regional customs and traditions
Emily blinked her eyes, and moved her head. It felt heavy and she felt hot and sick, so she let it fall back—smacking it smartly onto a surface that was both hard and wet. Startled, and now hot and sick and sore, she pulled herself up.
She was back in the whale slaughterhouse, lying against the rim of one of the disused oil vats on the vast factory floor. She pulled on her hands, quickly discovering that they were tightly bound behind her. She managed to drag herself up into a sitting position, her head throbbing. She squeezed her eyes tight shut, then opened them, willing herself to wake up and start taking notice.
The slaughterhouse was still hot, but it was relatively quiet, the only sound the ever-present rumble that came from the whale oil overflow vat, the red-orange contents of which rolled thickly, like lava, the surface punctuated occasionally by a bursting bubble.
The Whalers had made progress since her last visit. The giant metal and chain framework that had been built on the factory floor had been lifted into place, suspended over the main vat. Despite its size and weight, the frame swung gently in the hot air that rose from the churning liquid beneath it. Tracing the heavy chains down, Emily saw they actually disappeared beneath the surface of the intensely hot substance.
Standing on the thick rim of that vat was Zhukov. He had his back to Emily, and seemed to be looking down into the roiling, molten liquid. Galia was sitting on the rim, which formed a foot-high step, her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands, and she was watching Emily.
There were other Whalers in the factory—two over at the far wall, standing by a pulley system that had been jury-rigged from one of the whale frame systems, linked to the new assembly hanging over the vat. Emily glanced around, and saw a few others positioned in various places, but not many, perhaps five or six. They seemed to have lost most of their members—first at Brigmore Manor, then at the Masquerade Ball.
Not that it seemed to matter. Whatever they had been planning, it seemed they had achieved their goals.
Emily wondered what they were going to do with her. Her kidnap couldn’t have been planned—nobody knew she was going to be at the event. No, the Whalers had s
truck the Boyle Mansion for some other purpose. As she looked around, however, she couldn’t see anything—or anyone, for that matter—that might have been taken from the house.
What in all the Isles did they want?
Galia lifted her head, her lip curling into a lopsided, nasty smile. The Whaler’s long knife had been resting across her knees, and now she held it in one hand. With her other she pressed the tip of her gloved finger into the tip of the blade, and she twisted the blade around and around on the makeshift pivot.
“Hey, boss,” she said. “She’s awake.” Galia stood and took a few steps toward Emily, the smile growing wider the closer she got. Then she sighed and called out over her shoulder.
“I said, her majesty is awake.”
No response. Galia turned on her heel and stalked back to the vat. She was impatient. Zhukov had stayed Emily’s execution back at the house, but she could tell that Galia was very keen to have it resumed. Very keen indeed. A chance perhaps for a lower-class criminal to get one over on her upper-class oppressors—by killing none other than the Empress herself.
“Are you listening to me, Zhukov?” She stepped up onto the rim of the vat, pulling her head back a little and half-raising an arm to shield her face against the heat.
Zhukov didn’t turn around, but he did, at last, speak.
“I hear you.”
Galia shrugged, then pointed at Emily with her knife.
“So what are we waiting for? We’ve got the Empress of the Isles, right here, in our power. Don’t you know what this means? We can get anything we want. Do anything we want. We can start wars with this.”
Zhukov laughed, deep in his chest. He turned away from the vat and glanced over at Emily, his red eyes shining. As his gaze met hers, she felt the ball of sick appear somewhere between her chest and her stomach, her skin breaking out in gooseflesh despite the heat of the factory.
She blinked and she saw the outline of a man, his arm moving swiftly from left to right as he slit the throat of the prisoner in his grip and she heard the laughter of a young woman carried on a cold wind.
Then Zhukov turned his eyes away from her to look at Galia, his minion, and Emily snapped out of it. The factory lurched around her as the strange vision vanished and the heat of the place slapped at her body.
It was him. Had to be. There was something, some kind of power he possessed, that made her feel sick, that sent her head spinning, that—
That made her see things.
Emily cleared her throat, then spat onto the wet floor beside her. She knew about magic—everyone did. Few people saw it, however, and fewer still believed in it—but everyone knew about the sailor’s scrimshaw, how it somehow tapped into the power that slowly decayed down the years from the Great Burning.
Whatever it was that Zhukov wielded, it didn’t seem to affect Galia or the other Whalers. Or anyone else at the Boyle Masquerade, at least as far as Emily had been able to see.
Zhukov’s amusement seemed to annoy Galia. She took a step toward her boss and lifted her knife—not exactly threatening him, but the point was still in his direction.
“What’s so funny?” she asked. “Don’t you get it? We have the Empress. We can make our demands. We can have the whole city if we wanted it.”
“Oh, Galia, how little you understand,” Zhukov said. “I want more than just this city.”
The woman jutted her chin out as she snarled. “You said we would have power. You said you would give me power. Well, I’ve done my part. Now it’s time for payment. Call it my fee for services rendered, if you want, but I want what you promised.
“What you promised!”
Galia screamed out her last demand, her whole body shaking, the knife tip somewhere at Zhukov’s neck, lost inside the fur scarf.
He reached out a gloved hand, and gently caressed Galia’s cheek. She jerked at his touch, and looked up into his red glass eyes.
“Please,” she said, her voice becoming a whisper barely heard over the dull roar of the vat. “Please. You promised me. You promised me everything.”
Zhukov nodded. “Yes, Galia. You wished to be part of this, to share in my power and to share in my victory. I am a hero of Tyvia and a man of my word. You shall share my power, just as you desired.”
Something flashed in Zhukov’s other hand—a knife, the twin blades wicked, as shiny as a mirror. It threw red and yellow and, impossibly, blue light around the factory as he drew it out of the folds of his coat.
And then he pushed it into Galia’s stomach, while his other hand still stroked her cheek. Galia’s eyes went wide, searching Zhukov’s hidden face. Perhaps for answers, perhaps for an explanation.
Emily didn’t think she would find it.
Zhukov pushed again and twisted the blades, holding the handle firm—the only thing that kept Galia standing. She coughed once, twice, blood spurting from her mouth onto Zhukov’s coat.
Then he let go of his bronzed knife. Galia fell, the blades still embedded in her, backward into the vat. The thick liquid spat as her body slid into it. There was a viscous cough, treacle-like rivulets flipping up into the air, as the Whaler’s bleeding body finally broke the surface tension and sank out of sight. Within a moment, the liquid settled down.
But it was different now. Emily could feel it. The heat in the factory intensified, and she had no idea how Zhukov, in his strange getup, could possibly stand the temperature so close to the edge. The light changed, brightening, moving from red to orange to yellow. Emily glanced around again.
The brighter light cast longer shadows, and the figures of the Whalers stationed around the factory floor seemed bleached out, flickering, a blue buzz of light dancing in the corner of the eye. Whalers who were looking at each other nervously, surprised at the sudden death of their old leader.
Emily turned back to Zhukov, to the roiling vat, to the shining light, and then it was gone.
She tried to stand again, but with her hands tied it was difficult, and there didn’t seem to be much point. But she managed to get herself up onto her knees. She lifted herself up, as tall as she could. Then she lifted her chin at the back of her captor, and—
She paused. A dozen thoughts ran through her head, a dozen things she could say to Zhukov—a dozen variations on “what do you want with me?” and “what are you going to do with me?” and “you have to let me go!”
But it was another question which swam to the surface of her mind, pushing the others aside.
She lifted her chin again.
“How do you think this is going to end, Zhukov?”
He tore his gaze away from the vat. He turned to look at Emily, then stepped off the lip of the vat and walked toward her. He stood over her, his red goggles boring holes into her head.
She didn’t falter, although she felt weak, confused, a ball of cold nausea rising in her throat. She sucked in a breath, her nostrils flaring, the tendons standing out on her neck like the cable and chain holding the frame up.
I am the daughter of Corvo Attano and Jessamine Kaldwin, she told herself. I am the Empress of the Isles.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
She saw herself reflected in Zhukov’s goggles.
There.
She focused not on him, not on his hidden eyes or his hidden face, but on herself. She watched the mirror image of Empress Emily Kaldwin I, defiant and strong.
The nausea passed, even if the feeling of tiredness did not.
“You ask an interesting question,” Zhukov said finally. “One with many different answers.”
Emily shook her head. “I am Empress of the Isles. Anything happens to me, and the might of my Empire will fall upon your head.”
Zhukov laughed, then he turned away and went over to the vat again. She followed his back with narrowed eyes.
“Nothing will happen to you, Empress,” Zhukov said, and then he paused, and turned to look at her over his shoulder. “Nothing will happen to you. Ever.”
He turned in the flickering, moving light and
waved to a group of four Whalers standing over on the left side of the factory floor. The group were slow to move at first, perhaps afraid of getting too close lest they shared Galia’s fate, but Zhukov waved his hand again and the group seemed to snap out of it, rushing forward to gather around a long, curved object covered in an oilcloth, sitting on the floor beside them.
Whatever it was, it was huge and awkward and heavy, requiring the strength of all four men to turn it on the floor so it rested on its curved side. Then, as two of the men held the object steady, the other two pulled the oilcloth off.
It was a bone, a giant, curved bone, something belonging to the anatomy of a creature Emily didn’t recognize. Was it a rib, maybe? Whatever it had belonged to, the creature must have been gigantic. Something like… a whale, perhaps?
That made sense, given where they were.
She watched, fascinated, as the four Whalers somehow managed to carry the huge arc of bone over to the vat. With careful positioning and a lot of silent cooperation, they set it down on the rim, balancing the thing on one end and pushing the other side up, so the bone stood vertically.
But only for a moment. Then its weight and gravity took over, and with a little helpful steering from the Whalers, it toppled over, into the vat, slipping into the thick liquid with a wet slapping sound.
Get him talking, Emily thought. Get him to tell you something. Something important. Something that will help stop him.
Something that will get you out of here.
“What was that?” Emily called out.
The Whalers retreated from the heat while Zhukov stepped back up onto the rim and looked down into the liquid. From Emily’s position, he was just a black silhouette against the yellow-blue-white light shining from the vat.
“The final ingredient,” Zhukov said. “The jawbone of an abyssal leviathan, a so-called deep watcher. Do you know those creatures, Empress? They live away from the world of man, in the farthest, darkest places of the world. There they weave their own kind of magic, channeling a power that comes from within their very bones, the current flowing through them like a living battery.”
Dishonored--The Corroded Man Page 24