Dishonored--The Veiled Terror

by Adam Christopher

  Billie stared down him. “I know your name, but you don’t know mine. Are you going to ask it?”

  “Irrelevant,” said Severin. “Your identity, even if I knew it, would have no meaning to me, and therefore would be of no value.”

  Billie shook her head. “But if you don’t know who I am, or where I came from, then you won’t know how to prevent more of us coming through to the Hollow. Maybe I’m just the first. Maybe I’m on my own. Maybe I’m a spy, or a saboteur, or maybe I’m both. It’s true that I’m your prisoner, but as a prisoner I have value. You could learn a lot from me.”

  Behind Severin, Uvanov raised an eyebrow. She glanced at the back of her leader’s head, and shifted on her feet again.

  “She might be right, sir,” she said. “We don’t know who she is or where she came from. If there is anything that could jeopardize the project, we should know about it. We are reaching a crucial stage, and if anything were to delay the next phase—”

  Without turning around, Severin lifted a hand, holding it above his shoulder, palm toward Billie. Uvanov immediately fell silent and looked at the floor again.

  “Nothing will delay the next phase,” Severin said, “and we will have no more intruders. If the prisoner is a spy or a saboteur as she suggests, then she has failed, because she has been captured. When she does not return to her masters—if she has any—it will be too late for them to act, regardless.”

  Billie smiled. “You’re very confident.”

  Severin lowered his hand. “At this stage of the project, the next phase has a ninety-nine percent chance of success. Even if any more of you are able to enter the Void hollow, I have an entire army there which will be placed on high alert, immediately.”

  “You talk like some kind of calculating machine.”

  Severin smiled, finally. “Thank you for the compliment.”

  Billie pulled on the chains, making them creak in their ceiling anchors. “So if all of this is an ‘irrelevance,’ as you call it, then why am I here? If you’re not going to question me, then why am I still alive?”

  “That status is only temporary, I can assure you,” said Severin. “But you are mistaken again. You are not an irrelevance. On the contrary, you may be very useful to the operation.”

  He reached up and grabbed Billie’s chin with his gloved hand. Like the rest of him, his hand was small, the fingers thin, the bones within delicate, but there was strength in them. Billie could resist only a moment before she succumbed, allowing the man to turn her head to one side. Standing almost on tiptoe, Severin peered at the Sliver.

  “Most interesting,” he said, then he let go and took a step back, looking this time at Uvanov. The second-in-command seemed to find her confidence, and she moved forward, pointing at Billie.

  “What if there is another way into the Hollow?” she asked, moving closer to her prisoner. “What if she didn’t use runes, but used… whatever that is in her head?”

  She pointed to the Sliver. Billie instinctively turned her head away.

  Severin’s smile didn’t return—maybe he’d used up his daily ration of facial expressions, Billie thought—but his mouth twitched again, betraying his interest, no matter how cold he seemed.

  “An interesting supposition,” he said. “But one that is contrary to all of our accumulated knowledge. There may be a resurgence in primitive sorceries, but nothing that is of sufficient power.”

  Uvanov took a step toward her leader. She lowered her voice. “But what if it is possible? What if that thing in her head isn’t low magic? And her arm. That’s like nothing we’ve seen before. She’s wielding a higher kind of power, I’m sure of it. Surely that is worth investigating?”

  Severin stared at his subordinate for a good four, five seconds, then he gave a short, sharp nod. “Logic accepted,” he said. He pointed a gloved finger at Billie’s face. “Dissect that out of her skull.” He glanced at her Void-touched arm, then at the other, then back again, before pointing to the magical limb. “And disconnect that. Have both artifacts sent to the workshops for immediate analysis. I will inform my engineers. You have your orders, Uvanov.”

  The second-in-command snapped her heels together, then marched toward the door.

  That was when the door opened. Uvanov came to a rapid halt, almost slipping on the polished floor. Severin spun around to face the newcomers.

  They were a trio, two men and a woman, clad in forest-green tunics made out of a rich, deep velvet, over pants that were a brilliant, unsullied white, matching the white leather bandoliers that crisscrossed their chests. The two men wore tall helmets, covered in a heavy red fabric, the peaks and chinstraps more of the shining white. The woman in front wore a round peaked cap. All three had two pistols each, holstered at their hips.

  Severin stepped up to the woman. When he spoke, his voice remained perfectly level, perfectly monotonous. “Explain your presence here,” he said. “I have not sent for assistance nor authorized any request on my behalf.”

  The woman frowned, and lifted her chin at Severin.

  “I am Chief Constable Tallie Corfield. You will release the prisoner into the custody of the Royal Morley Constabulary.”

  Billie narrowed her eyes as she watched the exchange. She’d seen members of the constabulary patrolling what was left of Alba when she had arrived, of course, but she hadn’t seen them since she’d entered the construction site.

  “The constabulary has no legal authority on the premises of the Leviathan Company,” said Severin, “under the power of the Royal Warrant granted on the fourth day of the Month of Seeds, 18—”

  At this the Chief Constable reached into her tunic, and pulled out a folded sheet of heavy cream paper, sealed with red wax. Severin looked at the item for a couple of seconds before taking it. After studying the seal for a few more moments, he slid a finger under the lip and broke the wax. He began to read, holding the paper close to his face despite his thick-lensed glasses.

  Uvanov moved closer to her boss. She glanced at the three constables, then peered at the paper over Severin’s shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “What is it?”

  Without looking, Severin shot his hand out, thrusting the paper at Uvanov. She took it, and read. Billie watched her lips move as she did so.

  After a few moments, Uvanov looked up over the paper at the Chief Constable.

  “By Royal Proclamation?”

  The Chief Constable nodded, a slight smile playing over her lips.

  Billie cleared her throat. Nobody took any notice of her. “Someone want to tell me what’s going on?”

  The Chief Constable looked at her. “You are coming with us,” she said, before gesturing to her two men. They stepped forward, clearly anticipating the transfer of custody.

  Severin stood stock still, hands clenched into fists by his sides. He was staring at the Chief Constable, and he seemed to be almost vibrating on the spot with withheld anger.

  Uvanov stepped around Severin until she was in his eyeline.

  “Sir?” She lifted the paper. “This is by Royal Proclamation. We have to obey.”

  Severin and Uvanov locked gazes, then finally Severin gave another short nod. Uvanov’s shoulders fell, like a weight had been taken off them. She motioned to the company guard, who Billie knew was standing behind her. “Let the prisoner down.”

  A second later Billie heard the rattle of chains, and there was a clank. The chains holding her to the ceiling suddenly went slack, and she fell to the hard floor, managing at least to roll onto her side to protect her knees.

  She looked up to see Severin march out, forcing the constables to make way. Then Uvanov’s face loomed in front of her. She frowned.

  And then one of the Royal Morley Constables moved forward. He pulled a black cloth out of a pouch on his bandolier, and as he walked toward Billie, he fussed with it, pulling it out, expanding it, until Billie saw he was holding open a black bag.

  And then Billie’s world went dark.

 
18

  ALBA, MORLEY

  Date unknown, Month of Darkness, 1853

  The trio of constables walked Billie for what felt like a mile or more, holding her in a solid, uncomfortable grip on each arm.

  They went up a set of steps, then along a corridor with a series of turns—right, left, left again. Then they went down a set of steps. Here the ground changed from smooth and even to rough, stony, pitted, and Billie’s musty world became just a little bit brighter, the sounds of the causeway construction site suddenly louder.

  That they were outside didn’t take any kind of deduction, but Billie concentrated nonetheless, trying to determine direction and remember the path they were taking.

  That plan went out the window when the constables holding her jerked her to a sudden stop. Billie turned her head, trying to get some kind of sense of her surroundings, but it was no good. The black bag wasn’t entirely opaque, but the most she could tell was that it was daylight.

  Then something large moved into position in front of her with a heavy rumble, blotting out the dim light that was leaking into her world, accompanied by the sound of hooves on cobbles and the wet snorts of a couple of horses. There was a clatter, followed by another, and then Billie was pushed forward. Her shin caught on something hard and she backed up, then lifted her foot until she found a step. There were only three, and then she was pushed into the coach’s compartment before her arms were released. There was a clack again as the door to the compartment was closed, and Billie heard two of the constables moving around the small space beside her.

  The horses stamped their feet, and the compartment rocked and started to move. Billie rolled on the floor, hitting her head against one wall. A moment later, two hands hooked under her armpits and pulled her up, until she was sitting on a cushioned bench. Released, she adjusted her position and worked at her cuffed hands, squashed now between her back and the wall of the compartment.

  “May as well get yourself comfortable,” said one of the constables.

  Billie turned to the voice, but there was no longer enough light to penetrate the bag over her head.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  The constable didn’t answer.

  ***

  The journey took about an hour, by Billie’s rough estimate. The compartment rocked and rolled with the terrain, while the two constables muttered to each other in a language Billie recognized but didn’t understand—Old Morlish, a dialect common to the rural, northern areas of the country. It wasn’t a language she expected to hear in Alba, or indeed in any of the cities and townships in the southern half of Morley, but she also knew that the Royal Morley Constabulary, as the national military force, recruited from all regions as a matter of pride and principle, symbolizing one nation unified under their benevolent Queen and King.

  Beyond that, Billie knew little of Morley politics, and cared even less.

  Eventually, the pace of the horses slowed and, soon enough, the coach came to a stop. The two constables moved around again, rocking the coach on its springs, and there was a bang as the door of the compartment was opened and slammed against the outside. Billie shifted on her seat, rolling her shoulders as her human arm sparked with pins and needles from being stuck behind her. Once more she felt hands on her arms, and now a hand on her head, pushing it down, ensuring she didn’t smack herself against the frame of the coach’s small door.

  Her boots crunched on gravel. The coach door slammed behind her. She heard more people moving, gravel sliding all around her, the horses’ heavy snorting breath. They’d reached their destination, and Billie counted maybe three more people, in addition to the two constables and their chief, who must have ridden with the driver.

  They led her forward, and the sounds changed: they moved from hard-packed gravel to wood, ancient and as solid as iron, but wood nonetheless. It was a bridge, passing over water—Billie could not only hear the splash from a drain emptying into the main body, but the flicker of fish as they broke the surface. After a few dozen yards, the footing changed again, and they were on smooth flagstones, the echo of their footsteps suggesting there was more stone arching overhead. Billie could feel the cool radiating off them.

  The constables were met by more people. Billie assumed they were more of the same, that she had been brought to some kind of station, or maybe even directly to a prison. The constables talked but she learned nothing from their conversation. Yes, they had arrived; no, there hadn’t been any trouble; she wanted to see the prisoner immediately, no, immediately, yes, directly, and get a bloody move on.

  Billie was led along a stone path. She listened carefully to the footfalls of the group—she was pretty sure there was an open space on her right, and a building on her left. They could be walking along the edge of a courtyard, perhaps. Then she was turned ninety degrees, led down another short path, then up a set of five wide steps. A pause, another muted conversation between constables, then the familiar sound of a large wooden door being opened.

  Immediately, warm air wafted out over her, bringing with it the rich floral scent of Morley orchids. Before they led her in, she could hear footsteps on yet another surface. This sound was a crisp, flat tapping. The floor was very hard—marble, perhaps?

  They moved inside. The air was rich with the floral scent, and after who knew how many hours of being strung up in the cell and then traveling in the unheated compartment of the coach, the warmth inside was cloying.

  Her boots clacked on the floor, then she hit carpet, the sudden absence of footfalls an unnerving surprise in her world of darkness. The hands pulled her to a stop, and a moment later, the black bag was pulled off her head.

  Billie blinked in the light, squinting as her human eye adjusted. The Sliver remained quiet, and cold, seeing nothing extraordinary in her surroundings.

  Nothing extraordinary in the magical sense, anyway. Because there was certainly nothing ordinary about the woman standing in front of Billie.

  She was very tall, and very thin, her jet-black hair falling to her waist. She wore a green pantsuit several shades darker than the color of the constabulary’s uniforms, with golden buttons running all the way down the middle from neck to waist. The tunic was sleeveless, and the woman wore thin black gloves that came up past the elbow. Her eyes were green, as was the jewel that sat in the center of her forehead, held in the claws of a raven fashioned out of gold, set with diamonds—the bird held in place by a delicate diadem of copper strands that were irregular and twisted, simulating the natural structure of wood. There was something very familiar about the symbol.

  The Chief Constable saluted the woman, then swept her red cap off her head and held it tightly under her arm as she stood to attention.

  “Mr. Severin’s prisoner, Your Majesty,” she said, before giving a short bow. Billie glanced at the Chief Constable, then at the woman. Then, at last, she recognized the raven on the crown. It was the royal symbol of Morley.

  Billie raised an eyebrow. She shifted on her feet, and pulled at her arms, but her hands were still manacled behind her back. Seeing the movement, the tall woman smiled and gestured with one black-gloved arm.

  “Those will not be necessary,” she said.

  The Chief Constable snapped another salute, and barked an order at one of her constables. He in turn saluted, and, after extracting a set of keys, undid the binders on Billie’s wrists. Billie, grateful at being freed, began rubbing the life back into her human wrist with her magical hand.

  “That will be all,” said the tall woman.

  “Ma’am,” said the Chief Constable. With yet another bow, she then backed away, keeping her front to the tall woman, her constables doing the same behind her until they were through the doorway. The tall woman waited until the door was closed, then turned her attention to Billie.

  “You must forgive the theatrics,” she said, “but there is always a protocol to be followed.”

  Billie shook her head, and only just managed to stop herself from spitting on the expensive
carpet. “Protocol, my ass. You’re going to tell me where I am and what you want with me, right now.”

  The woman laughed. “Spirited, I see.” She spread her arms. “You are in the House of the Fourth Chair, the winter palace of the Royal Court of Morley.

  “I am Eithne, Queen of Morley. And I have been wanting to speak to you for quite some time.”

  19

  HOUSE OF THE FOURTH CHAIR, NEAR ALBA

  Date unknown, Month of Darkness, 1853

  Billie looked around the room, a long gallery with a marble floor, over which was laid a narrow, rich carpet. The walls were marble, the ceiling high and arched, with huge windows letting in ample daylight. Every open space along the walls was covered with displays of weaponry—swords, shields, pikes, halberds, pistols, arranged in fans and circles, forming a dizzying display between long, low sofas and chairs upholstered in more of the ubiquitous green fabric.

  The Queen watched her.

  “Since when do queens want to speak with the likes of me?” Billie asked.

  “You may call me Eithne,” said the Queen. “Only those who serve me call me Queen. And I believe we are very much equals, are we not?”

  Billie narrowed her eyes, trying to parse Eithne’s words through her mind. The Queen watched, then laughed.

  “Billie Lurk, daughter of Asher and Francis, right hand of the Knife of Dunwall, Savior of Emily the Wise.”

  Billie felt the breath leave her body.

  No, that was impossible.

  “You know the names of my parents?”

  Eithne nodded. “Believe me, Billie Lurk, I know everything there is to know about you. How you loved Deirdre. How you helped defeat Delilah Copperspoon. How you rescued Daud.”

  Then the smile vanished.

  “How the Outsider fell.”

  Billie ground her teeth together. She flexed the fingers of her Void-touched hand, the magical black stone clicking. She stared at Eithne and the Queen held her gaze.