Because if you wanted something that wasn’t sold by the normal kind of merchant, something illicit, illegal, but above all rare—say, a pouch of Green Lady—Billie knew just where to go.
Checking her direction, Billie tugged at the collar of her greatcoat, adjusted the eyepatch over the Sliver, and headed toward Wyrmwood Way.
3
THE STREETS OF DUNWALL
4th Day, Month of Wind, 1853
It was only a matter of minutes before Billie knew she was being followed. She headed south, across Kaldwin Bridge, then turned west, making for Patterson Street. The walk to Wyrmwood Way was a long one, but it felt good to be moving, giving her body at least some kind of mild exercise, the cool morning air easing the dull throb in her head.
And besides, she wanted to learn more about whoever it was on her trail.
By the time she hit the southern side of the river, she had learned just one thing: the person following her wasn’t very good at it. In fact, his attempt at tracking her was so farcical Billie was tempted to stop and introduce herself.
The man was wrapped in a heavy gray cloak that, while decorated with exquisite black embroidery on the sleeves, had clearly seen better days, the once almost regal garment now tatty and worn, the embroidery coming away from the velvety fabric in several flapping pieces. The cloak had a huge hood pulled down so far that it must have been exceedingly difficult for the man to see anything other than his feet and a small patch of road, let alone the person he was following. He was by far the most conspicuous person out on the streets; she could see as she glanced behind her that he had caught the eye of not just herself but many of the citizens around, and even officers of the City Watch.
It was ridiculous, and Billie’s temper began to fray. She stopped at intervals, pretending to either check direction or look into store windows as she passed along a merchant row; each time, the cloaked figure would dart into an alleyway or turn his back to her, as though the voluptuous cloak would render him somehow invisible in the middle of the street. As soon as Billie resumed her march, her tail sprang into action, once again following her far too closely.
Billie didn’t know who he was, didn’t know why he was following her, didn’t care about either of those things. Strange things had happened in the world in the last year, and more than a few citizens of the Empire had been touched by events in some way. Billie wondered whether the man’s vast hood concealed some kind of body modification, or perhaps he had been chewing a little too much of his own kind of herb lately.
Her anger faded, replaced with amusement. He was an interesting distraction. She was in no danger, and after a while she ignored him. Then, as she drew closer to Wyrmwood Way, the ache in her head began to increase, and her attention returned to the task at hand: namely, the acquisition of a good few ounces of Green Lady. As she approached Darrellson Street, the long thoroughfare that acted as the unofficial northern border of the Wyrmwood district, Billie felt the weight of the coin in her coat pocket. Normally, she would have had more than enough to see her through the next few weeks—but how long exactly now depended on the current price the black marketeers of Dunwall were charging.
At Darrellson Street, the foot traffic thinned noticeably. She passed a trio of guards from the City Watch standing beneath a lamp post, having reached the end of their patrol route and unwilling to proceed any farther. She felt the men’s eyes on her as she crossed the invisible boundary and found herself on Wyrmwood Way.
Head down, collar up, Billie moved briskly down the street. Of course, while Wyrmwood Way was a somewhat… unusual street, there was no particular danger here on the outskirts of the district. Indeed, she wasn’t the only person venturing into this territory. The City Watch might not patrol anywhere beyond Darrellson, but, despite the early hour, there were several more adventurous citizens perusing the wares on display outside the lopsided buildings that lined the street.
But what she needed wasn’t to be found on Wyrmwood Way itself. She had to go deeper into the district. To Mandragora Street, where there was an apothecary’s store Billie had used before.
A few minutes later, as she turned into that street, the store just ahead on her right, Billie paused and looked around. The person following her in the ridiculous cloak had vanished, probably too nervous to enter a district known for its villainy.
Billie smiled. That would have included her. Once.
She walked down the street, and entered the store.
***
The apothecary of Mandragora Street was a single, square shop, the walls of which were lined with shelves stacked with tins, jars, and bottles in hundreds of shapes, sizes, and colors, while down the center of the main space, two more large shelves ran, piled with more of the same. At the far end of the room, opposite the door, was a serving counter, which also acted as a barrier designed to prevent customer access to the more expensive—and potent—wares locked behind leaded glass doors in the cabinet beyond.
Billie was not the only customer. At the counter, the apothecary—a bearded man with barrel chest and tree-trunk arms, who looked like he should be roughing people up in the name of the Dead Eels Gang despite the dirty long white coat he was wearing—was talking to a younger, and far smaller, man dressed in drab, gray clothing that was almost in rags. Even from the doorway, Billie could smell the small man’s reek, despite the heady mix of aromas that permeated the room from the apothecary’s stock.
The apothecary glanced over his customer’s shoulder at Billie as she entered. As he gave a sniff of disinterest, she saw he had a body modification of his own, a curved, hook-like sliver of whale ivory pierced through the flesh of his right cheek. The skin around the puncture looked red and angry. As he returned his attention to the first customer, Billie scooted around one of the shelves in the center of the room, keeping out of sight of the counter.
When shopping in Wyrmwood district, you tended to give other patrons their privacy.
Billie pursed her lips and scanned the shelves around her, but what she wanted wasn’t on display, wasn’t even in the locked cases behind the counter. Green Lady was an altogether more unusual commodity than the impressive collection of potions, herbs, salves, tonics, and powders on display in the main part of the store. She would have to wait to ask the apothecary himself, try to strike some kind of deal for a good supply… preferably with nobody else in the store.
Except the first customer didn’t seem to have any intention of leaving. Billie folded her arms and frowned, her back to the pair as she eavesdropped on the conversation she had walked in on.
“Now listen, and listen good,” said the apothecary. “I’m not giving you any more Addermire’s, and that’s final.” His voice was calm and level, but with enough force behind it to give his words the authority his customer clearly hadn’t yet been able to accept.
Silently, Billie turned and leaned out from behind the shelves, so she could see what was happening.
“Look, Jacko,” said the customer, one hand reaching toward the apothecary, “please, you have to listen to me. Jacko, you have to. All I need is one more vial. Just one, and I’ll be out of your hair for good, I promise, Jacko, I really promise, I do.”
Jacko stood back and folded his thick arms across his chest. He scowled, and gave a slight shake of the head.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Woodrow, but there’s nothing I can—”
“Jacko! Come on now, Jacko! See me right, won’t you?”
The apothecary sighed and unfolded his arms, before leaning on the counter in a way that Billie could see was supposed to be intimidating, if only his customer wasn’t so utterly desperate. The small man did twitch, just a little, but whether this was due to the rapidly deteriorating attitude of the apothecary or something else entirely, Billie wasn’t sure—although she would have put coin on the latter. There was certainly something wrong with him.
“Now, you listen to me, Hayward,” said Jacko, his voice now a low rumble from his vast chest. “Listen. I’ve been good to you. You know I h
ave. I know your troubles. And I’ve tried to help. But you have to understand that my business doesn’t normally run to charity. Just because I knew your mother and helped her when your father got sick, doesn’t mean I can keep you supplied with Addermire Solution. They don’t make it anymore. What stock I’ve got left is a precious commodity, one I have to protect.”
“I’ll pay!” Woodrow spluttered, his hands diving into his tattered clothing. “Jacko, I can pay… I just…” He paused, looking down at himself as his roving hands failed to come up with any coin. He jerked his head up and leaned on the counter, bringing his face just about level with Jacko’s chin. “I know a place!” he said, far too quickly. “I’ll level with you, Jacko. I know a place, hidden, it is, where there’s some of the Abbey’s platinum. It’s a… secret. It’s not far. I just… I just need a little time to get it. You know how it is. And maybe… and maybe you can just give me some Addermire before I go, just a little bit, just so as I can get there and come back all the quicker, right, Jacko? Right? Jacko, tell me I’m right, will you?”
Jacko sighed, then in one swift movement he grabbed Woodrow by the front of his tattered jacket, lifting the man clear off the floor and yanking him across the serving counter on his stomach.
“Don’t you come to me with that story again, boy!” roared Jacko. “That’s the second time you’ve tried it, not that your addled mind would remember! You know as well as I do that any treasure or coin the High Overseer had squirreled away was confiscated by the Empress after she dissolved the Abbey of the Everyman.”
“No, no, not all of it, Jacko, not all of it,” said Woodrow, trying his best to speak as the apothecary’s fists tightened at his neck. “Listen, Jacko, me and some of the other Overseers, we—”
Jacko wrenched the man further across the counter. Woodrow cried out in surprise and kicked with one leg, his knee knocking a set of brass tins off the top of the serving bench. They hit the floor with a clatter and spilled open, sending a fine, dark green ash fanning out across the flagstones.
Jacko snarled. “No, you listen to me, Hayward. There are no Overseers anymore, my son. You know that better than I do. And there’s no more Addermire Solution for you now, neither. So either you leave and you don’t come back, or I break your legs and you can go crawling to your friends and tell them that Jacko’s patience has run clean out, got it, lad?”
Billie watched the scene unfold with interest. So, the customer claimed he was an Overseer. Billie hrmmed quietly to herself.
Of course, there was no such thing as an Overseer. Not anymore. That was something else that had changed after the Outsider had fallen, something far more concrete than strange dreams and visions. Just days after Billie had returned from the Void, she began to hear rumors about strange happenings at the Abbey of the Everyman. Billie ignored the reports at first, but over time they became more and more outlandish, culminating with the bizarre story that the High Overseer had become moonstruck and, having called a meeting with high-ranking officials of both the Abbey and the Sisters of the Oracular Order, killed more than a dozen of his brothers and sisters—including the High Oracle herself—before being finally overpowered.
That was a year ago. Since then, there had been no official news, no announcements or proclamations, but Billie had pieced the story together and traced events back, and had found that it was true that, just after the fall of the Outsider, neither the High Overseer nor the High Oracle had been seen in public again.
The Abbey of the Everyman lasted only another six months after that, when, without warning, Empress Emily Kaldwin abolished the institution. An entire battalion of soldiers from Whitecliff was ordered into the Abbey in Dunwall in a symbolic show of force, occupying the building while it was stripped of valuables. Most of the Overseers simply fled. Those who tried to put up a defense were killed or locked up in Coldridge Prison, where they remained to this day. There were other rumors, too, that the High Overseer was not dead, that he had been kept hidden in the Abbey, his mind broken, and that he was now locked in Coldridge in an iron straightjacket.
Billie wasn’t quite sure about that story.
But at least the Overseers hadn’t suffered the same fate as the Sisters of the Oracular Order. While the Abbey had been dissolved and the post of Overseer abolished, the men—those who hadn’t resisted the Imperial army, anyway—had been allowed to go free. The Sisterhood was actually hunted—across the Isles, their chapels were stormed, most of the Sisters themselves burned at the stake on sight.
But according to Billie’s sources, this wasn’t Emily’s doing. The order of the Empress had been the same for the Abbey and for the Order, as the two were merely branches of the same institution. But something had happened to the soldiers sent to turn out the Sisterhood, and what should have been a firm but lawful suppression turned into massacres, all over the Isles, as chapels were torn down and the Sisters killed. The news was shocking, although the silence from the Empress was, for Billie, perhaps even more so. Billie had never heard quite what happened to those soldiers to make them go rogue. Some said they had seen horrors beyond imagining within the walls of the chapels, things which had driven them berserk. Others said a cabal of military commanders with a vicious streak and a secret agenda against the Sisterhood had been responsible.
Whatever the case, the Sisters of the Oracular Order were no more.
Meanwhile, the strange behavior of those Overseers who had hidden themselves across the Isles, fearful of persecution, had steadily worsened. Billie suspected it was the same dreams that plagued everyone—but because they were former Overseers, who had obsessed over the arcane, they were probably preconditioned to be among the worst affected. They fought amongst each other in the street, becoming rabid, insensible, and highly dangerous. Those the City Watch didn’t round up found darker corners to hide in, turning their broken minds to low-grade sorceries in an effort to regain their status—and their sanity.
Hayward Woodrow, at least, seemed one of the more cogent former Overseers that Billie had encountered. That he was even still alive spoke of some skill at self-preservation, something you needed at least some of your wits to manage.
At the apothecary counter, Jacko and Woodrow seemed to have reached an impasse. Dangling over the counter, his ragged clothing bunched up around him, the emaciated Woodrow was no match physically for the muscular bulk of the apothecary. Jacko was clearly well suited to his job—his store contained many rare, valuable, and highly illicit items, and he would have had to deal with far worse than Woodrow on a fairly regular basis. Billie cursed herself for walking in on this encounter. She liked to think she was a patient person, but the pounding in her head was getting worse, and she could only hope it wouldn’t distract her from making the best deal possible for some Green Lady.
Jacko snarled again, but he released his grip on Woodrow. The young man slid back to his side of the counter, lost his balance, and fell heavily onto his bony backside. Jacko resumed his folded-arms pose behind the counter and looked at the man down the length of his nose, a sneer on his mouth.
“Now get your skinny ass out of my shop, and crawl back to whatever black muckhole you came from. And you can tell your friends that Jacko’s emporium is closed for business from now on, okay?”
Woodrow shuffled backward on his hands until he hit the shelf behind him, making him jolt with apparent fright. Billie could see he was shaking more than ever. That he wanted—needed—Addermire Solution so badly hinted strongly that he was addicted to the stuff. Perhaps that was what had kept his mind together for so long. No wonder he was desperate.
As was she. Perhaps she was addicted to Green Lady. The herb wasn’t particularly dangerous, or even that strong—Billie had no idea how much you’d have to take to suffer the kind of withdrawal that Woodrow was clearly going through—but yes, she felt the same almost irrational desire for the substance. But here, seeing Woodrow, dressed in rags, shivering on the floor, she vowed to herself that would never let herself sink so low. Sh
e was strong. She was in control.
And what Jacko had said was right—Addermire Solution wasn’t made anymore. As far as she knew, nobody was making that kind of restorative elixir.
Billie was tired of waiting. She had work to do, and the scene in the apothecary’s was nothing but an annoying distraction. She stepped around the shelving and walked toward the counter, ignoring Woodrow, ready to barter with Jacko for her own particular needs.
That was when Woodrow leapt to his feet. From the depths of his cloak he produced a crude knife, the blade a rough, triangular shard of black metal, the surface dented, almost undulating, while the grip was just some greasy bandages wrapped around the haft.
“Back! Get back!” he yelled, waving the knife in front of him.
Billie watched him, watched the knife… and felt a stabbing pain in her head as the Sliver suddenly seemed to catch fire, burning like a coal in her eye socket. She hissed in agony, and fell back against the counter. As she looked over at Woodrow, she saw his strange blade leave a smeary trail of red and blue in the air as he swung it, like two superimposed afterimages of the weapon, flashing in Billie’s vision.
Billie focused on her breathing. She’d seen something like that before—several times, in fact: hollows, soft spots where the Void leaked into the world, giving her glimpses of… other things. She also knew that neither Woodrow nor Jacko knew the colored streaks were there. Only she could see them, thanks to the Sliver.
Woodrow’s weapon was no ordinary knife. It was linked to the Void—directly.
Jacko raised an eyebrow, and glanced at Billie as she recovered herself. Then he sighed and turned back to Woodrow. Even with the knife, he was going to be absolutely no match for the apothecary unless he got very, very lucky.
Then again, Billie thought, the man was desperate. He was an addict, and he needed his fix, and he wasn’t going to get it.
That made him far more dangerous and unpredictable. In Woodrow’s mind, he had nothing to lose.
Dishonored--The Veiled Terror Page 3