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Corvo wakes with the sun, and climbs to an outcropping on the tower to watch the shadows disperse in the city. When her stomach rumbles, she blinks down, stretches tentatively, and makes her way into the pub. Lydia is setting breakfast on trays and complains to Wallace about odd noises she’d heard in the basement.
“I think it could be weepers,” she says.
“I hope you’re wrong,” answers Wallace. “It could compromise our operation.”
Lydia scoffs quietly. “It’s not like they can run to the Lord Regent and betray us. I don’t think they really comprehend their surroundings… They’re more like rabid hounds than people. Poor souls.”
Wallace doesn’t answer. Corvo steps into the light and draws the servants’ attention. Lydia instantly straightens her back and schools her face into a polite expression.
“Lady Corvo, good morning. I will serve your breakfast soon, if you’d like to eat here.”
Corvo wouldn’t, but it’s too early for the Loyalists to gather in the pub yet, and she doesn’t feel like acting out a pantomime to communicate other wishes. She nods and sits in a booth in a far corner.
The morning drags on after she eats. She visits Piero, who refills her sleep darts with an improved solution. She then lowers herself carefully into the sewers, keen to investigate the noises if only to kill time. After an exercise in reflex to neutralize some river krusts, she pockets the slimy pearls and follows the moans that, down here, cannot be mistaken for anything else. The weepers don’t notice her until she has choked them out and slit their throats. A merciful, swift death.
She emerges in the basement and immediately heads to the small bathroom to wash her soiled trousers and boots. The water guzzles and comes out in erratic spurts, but it’s clean, and soon Corvo redresses herself and trots up to her room for a fresh change of clothes.
She sits on the rooftop of Piero’s workshop next, observing the life in the Hound Pits. Callista spots her when she comes out with the trash.
“May I speak with you, my lady?” she calls, and gasps when Corvo slides down onto the rickety balcony on the first floor of the building, then drops to the ground from there. She regains her composure, though remains impressed. “I wanted to thank you for saving my uncle from Campbell’s scheme.”
Corvo considers rejecting the heirloom that the governess presents her with, but sees that it would offend her. She makes a mental note to repay the young woman - after all this is over - if they all come out of this alive. Though not very valuable, the cameo could fetch enough coin to put her head above the water in the chaos of Dunwall.
“Teague Martin has told me to pass his thanks,” she informs Corvo, almost as an afterthought. “He is working with the admiral and lord Pendleton on the book you have recovered from Campbell. Piero is helping them decipher the code, too. They seem to think they might crack it by nightfall.”
A weight lifts off Corvo’s shoulders at the news. She smiles gratefully and parts ways with Callista in brighter spirits.
She finds it easy to fall into a routine. She spends the morning avoiding the Loyalists, keeping the servants company or scouring the abandoned houses around the pub. Noon sees her setting up a few makeshift practice dummies and going through a light training routine. It leaves her winded and aching, but she pushes through the motions, keen to beat her body into a fighting shape. It is far from there. At least the void powers give her an edge where her prowess lacks. She abstains from exercising these in the light of day, however - especially in the presence of Overseer Martin.
Speak of the wolf, she thinks on the third day when the man himself comes out of the bar during her training and lights a cigarette. Noticing Corvo, he strolls over leisurely. She nods politely, folding her blade and slipping into her coat.
“We have managed to decipher Campbell’s code,” the man cuts straight to the chase. Corvo can appreciate that. “I have left Havelock to read the notes in the book, now. If Campbell knew anything about - “
“I found it!” comes an exclamation from the door. Havelock steps out with a spring in his gait, holding up the notebook in question. “We know our next move.”
“Do share,” implores Martin.
“Campbell mentions my elder brothers,” pipes in Pendleton, expression more sour than usual, “and their… arrangement with the Golden Cat.”
“This is about lady Emily?” Martin’s brow furrows, and he rubs his lower lip thoughtfully. “They’re holding her there?”
“Not for long,” says Havelock grimly. “Campbell notes that she is to be moved from the Golden Cat to another secret location tomorrow night, before dawn. We must extract her before then.”
All eyes fall on Corvo. She presses her lips into a tight line. Yes, ‘we’. Stop dancing around the topic of me being your muscle. Outwardly, she only nods and rasps, “Dinner. Then I go.”
“I will let Samuel know,” offers Havelock. Corvo heads back into the bar while Pendleton joins Martin with a cigarette of his own.
The dinner is little more than heated up serkonan sausage with some potatoes, but it’s a meal. The admiral briefs her about the Pendletons, who hold the power to sway the Parliament in Burrows’ favor. When she’s done, she stands up briskly, lets Lydia take her plate, and is out of the door. Samuel, as though exempt from the need for regular sustenance, is already sitting in the Amaranth, smiling patiently at Corvo. She fumbles, hoping she didn’t force him to rush his own dinner, or skip it altogether.
“Hop in whenever you’re ready, lady Corvo,” he says. “I have my dinner right here, I can eat as I wait for you. The open air is better for my appetite.”
She raises a brow, questioning the appetizing qualities of the river stench, but the boatman is as resolute as ever. She hangs her coat over one shoulder, checks her equipment, and steps into the boat.
Indeed, far out on the river the heavy smell of rot and decay weakens, giving way to perhaps the freshest breeze anywhere in Dunwall. Corvo thinks she can detect the faintest trace of sea salt, but perhaps it is merely the freedom from the stale air around the Hound Pits that tricks her.
They alight at the same spot as last time. Samuel points out the watchtower whirring loudly above Clavering Boulevard. “Given them a scare, haven’t you,” he remarks with one of his wry smiles.
She answers with a dark grin and dashes into the growing shadows.
She meanders near Granny Rags’ apartment, but it’s sealed and marked with plague warnings, and vacant in her dark vision. A stocky man in dirty clothes calls to her from a street corner.
“Hey, you. Come over!”
She squints at him, scowling under the mask. The metal visage doesn’t seem to impress the thug.
“You look like you’re out for blood. Slackjaw wants to talk to you.”
She tilts her head, visibly putting her hand on the hilt of her blade. The stranger looks at the gesture, but seems unconcerned. “He wants to offer you a job,” he answers her unasked question. “Right through there.”
Heeding Samuel’s words from earlier that day, when he relayed gossip from the streets, she decides to see what the gang leader has to offer. Slackjaw had fingers in many pies, and perhaps one of those fingers could wedge open a door that wouldn’t require storming the brothel with guns blazing. She follows the stranger down the alley, peering with dark vision at the surroundings. Gold flickers in the corner of her eye, somewhere in the buildings above, but she can’t discern anything when she looks directly there.
Bottle Street gang members in the distillery yard show no signs of hostility - it seems that they have not discovered where the plague rat carcass in their elixir came from. Two weepers in Bottle Street garb whine in a small cell in the corner of the patio, visibly affecting the mood of everyone within earshot. Corvo swallows the guilt.
As it turns out, Slackjaw’s offer is benign enough, even if it will set Corvo back some half hour to fulfill his request and break into doctor Galvani’s house. She leaves the gang’s hideout and sneaks up on the rooftop overlooking the side street leading to the bathhouse. The watchtower would be easy enough to disable, but the guards positioned densely on the ground will make it hard to come through without a fight. Corvo sighs and makes her way into Galvani’s yet again.
When she presents her findings to Slackjaw, she isn't surprised to hear him make her another deal that she feels even more reluctant about. When the gangster promises to condemn the Pendletons to a lifetime of penance for their transgressions though, she gives it more thought. Much like Campbell, they hardly deserve a quick death, least of all because they are holding Emily prisoner in a brothel, of all places.
She shakes hands with Slackjaw and leaves with a key in hand.
To avoid the watchtower on her way to the hotel where Slackjaw promised a safe passage into the Golden Cat courtyard, Corvo weaves through side alleys. Weeper blood stains her blade after an unfortunate scuffle in a dark passage, but she is unharmed. Adrenaline leaves her veins gradually when hard, demanding voices reach her ears. She freezes in her tracks.
Up a flight of stairs, in a shadowed yard, two guards are accosting a frightened woman. Corvo doesn't need more reason than the panicked hitch in her voice to spring out of the dark and slash through both thugs’ throats in mere seconds. An angry huff leaves her when the bodies drop to the ground. She turns slowly, half expecting the woman to be paralysed with fear.
Instead, she is met with a hard expression that she cannot read.
“Thank you,” the stranger says. “I'm not sure they deserved it, but I am glad you stepped in. You saved the lives of both me and my daughter, if only for tonight. Here, take this. It's a key to an art collector's apartment, you're likely to find some pricey rewards in it.”
Corvo nods to the woman's already retreating back, lost in thought. Two lives lost, two prolonged. What if a child elsewhere in the city just became an orphan? The weight of the judgement she has just passed settles on her soul. She moves on hastily, not looking back at the corpses. The thought of Emily spurs her on.
Once she emerges from the abandoned hotel on a roof opposite the Golden Cat, she pauses for a while. The building is beautiful, as though the plague and the flooding and all the filth of the city were all unable to taint the garden, lush with chrysanthemums, and the structure itself, glinting in the fading sunlight with its gilded decor and flamboyant architecture. No wonder the rich and powerful of the city flocked to the brothel as if it were an oasis, forgotten by the decay.
Several more City Watchmen patrol the outside of the bathhouse, but Corvo finds she can plot a path above their heads if her blink would reach a dilapidated house adjacent to the garden. She takes a deep breath and a running start - and leaps - and at the apex of her trajectory, she exhales and warps the world around herself, and her boots hit the narrow ledge of the windowsill on the other side of the gap. She breathes sharply and darts for the cover inside the empty window, hoping no one saw her jump.
Hearing no scuffle or approaching footsteps, she sneaks along more ledges and rooftops until she can wrestle open a window of the Golden Cat and slip inside.
It takes her a while, but she manages to locate Bunting strapped to the electrical chair. A heavy block of ice forms in Corvo’s chest and drops to her guts at how much the room is reminiscent of the interrogation chamber in Coldridge. The long cause-and-effect chain between her staying in here and exacting revenge on Burrows rattles uselessly in her head as she does her level best not to bolt then and there.
She raises her left hand and grasps time in a clenched fist. The world slows down, swimming in thick honey of magic, and Corvo exhales. Emily is close and the Pendletons will soon be suffering for all they've done. All she needs to do is scare one man into revealing the combination to his safe. No permanent harm done to bystanders. She pushes the memory of the two guards in the back alley down and lets go of time.
Bunting’s squirming, first in arrogant pleasure and then in fear, fills her with disgust. She thinks with deep sympathy about the girls for whom this sort of task must be a welcome reprieve from the intimacy they must allow their clients. She leaves the art dealer throwing a tantrum in his restraints and swiftly moves through the shadows to where a stairwell leads to the highest floor of the brothel and where a small figure sits huddled, alone, outlined in gold though the ceiling.
Emily starts when she hears the door to her room open, and stays rooted to the spot as Corvo closes the door behind herself and reluctantly pulls off her mask. What sight will be worse for Emily - the horror of metal and wire or of scars and hollow eyes?
All worry and pain leave her thoughts the instant Emily gasps and exclaims, “Corvo!”, and races into her arms. Corvo hugs her like it's the only thing she has lived this long to do.
“I knew you would come,” the young Empress declares, the sunny certainty of a child's trust in the goodness of the world shining though her smile. It almost breaks Corvo, and she lets loose a half-sob, half-chuckle. She gently pets Emily’s hair with a trembling hand, feeling tears slide down her cheeks. The girl wipes them away, frowning with concern as she examines Corvo’s scars, chattering away about her plans to escape and a letter thrown into the river in a corked bottle, and the courtesans who were kind and the nobles who sneered at her, as though she wouldn't have them executed the moment she took back her throne.
Corvo lays a finger on the child's lips before standing up and peering through the walls to see if the coast is clear. Emily whispers about a secret exit at the back of the building and about its key, secured somewhere by the brothel’s proprietor, madame Prudence. Clever girl, Corvo mouths with a smile, and bids Emily to wait for her in a dark nook at the bottom of the stairwell.
Elation mixed with anxiety swell in her heart while she locates the madame. Though she has found Emily, they are far from safety yet. As if knowing of a trespasser’s presence, the proprietor keeps a guard near herself for good five minutes after Corvo spots her through a set of glass windows.
She’s starting to consider a quicker, if much more bloody than necessary, way to steal the key when the madame finally announces that she will be in her office and she is not to be disturbed. Corvo knows the office is locked, but the shadows of the stairwell obscure her well enough, and she manages to lodge a sleep dart in the old woman’s arm before she shuts the door behind her.
A soft thud announces that Piero’s new sleep toxin does its job. Corvo takes Prudence’s key, robs her safe - raising a brow at a bone charm squirrelled behind a stack of papers - and hurries to Emily.
They sneak hand in hand though damp passages and climb a rocky wall that separates them from Bottle Street. From there, it’s a matter of minutes before Emily is introduced to Samuel and they are ready to depart. The girl immediately takes to the boatman and they spend half of the way back to the Hound Pits talking about Emily’s antics to make the Pendletons’ life difficult. Corvo’s heart feels dangerously soft as she watches the adrenaline bleed out of the child’s movement. She sits on the bottom of the Amaranth and lets Emily lean back on her chest as she sips warm, milky tea from the thermos Samuel offered.
The Heart beats steadily against Corvo’s ribs, warm even through the layers of clothing between it and Corvo’s skin, when the girl dozes off. Corvo resolutely avoids thinking too deeply about it, focusing instead on the simple contentment of holding Emily safe in her arms.
She wakes the girl gently when the Hound Pits appears on the bank before them. All the Loyalists, including all four servants, have come out to greet the misplaced Empress. Corvo bristles at the thought of letting the girl out of her arms, but it’s not her place to shelter Emily from the closest thing she has to allies.
Emily handles the welcoming party with perfect grace, something she rarely showed willingly in the Tower. Corvo stands behind her as she exchanges pleasantries with Havelock, Martin, and Pendleton, making a point to not remove her mask yet. She keeps her eyes on the girl until she disappears in the building with Callista, then turns to Pendleton. The rat-faced noble startles, faced with the mask. He clears his throat, takes a sip from his pocket flask, casts a nervous glance at Corvo’s sword, and gathers the courage he doesn’t have.
“Are my brothers… dead?”
Corvo takes a sweet moment before shaking her head. “Mines,” she slurs. It takes Treavor a while to understand the word and the implication, and Corvo can see relief shine through the guilt on his face.
“That’s, erm, that’s good to hear, I suppose. I don’t need to live with my brothers’ blood on my hands, at least. It’s a relief to know they’re alive, somewhere,” he trails off, probably halfway through the process of believing his own words.
Indeed, you twat, it’s not their blood on your hands. It’s their blood, sweat, and tears, all on mine. That’s the coin in which I reap what I’m due.
Pendleton cannot see Corvo’s cold eyes behind the mask, but her expression is hardly less severe in this moment. She turns away.
She washes quickly and changes the dressings on her wounds. She steals two pears from Havelock’s room and takes the footbridge to the small room in the tower where Callista has cleared a room for Emily. The sun has set, and she watches the last of the light fade over the horizon as she devours the fruits. She can hear Emily talk with Callista in the tower. Her limbs feel heavy with fatigue, and tension leaves her shoulders as she finally realizes that Emily is safe, for now. She smiles and knocks on the door, waiting for Emily’s invitation.
“Unless you are my Lady Protector, please come back in the morning! I wish to rest. But if you’re not, can you find her and tell her that she could come, if she likes?” announces Emily from the inside.
Corvo smiles and enters. Emily brightens at her sight. She bounds to her side and grips her tightly, accidentally jarring a wound on Corvo’s side. She grunts in pain, but wraps her arms around the girl before she can pull back.
“I was about to go to sleep, I’m so glad you came now,” Emily begins. “Callista said she would be sleeping here with me, but I’d like to sleep with you, is that alright, Corvo? Could you come sleep here? Or can I come sleep with you, please?” There is a foreign note in her voice, and Corvo sees through the innocent tone she is trying to emulate. Emily is terrified of losing sight of her again. Callista’s stern face suggests that the governess doesn’t realize the weight of the girl’s request. Corvo touches her shoulder lightly, and nods with a solemn expression when the other woman looks at her. Thankfully, she understands; if not the situation, then its importance to Corvo.
“If that is what both of you wish,” she concedes. “I will come with your breakfast in the morning and we will begin our lessons. Do you need anything else, my Ladies?”
Emily stands up and curtsies, and shakes her head. “That will be all. Thank you, Callista,” she says for both herself and Corvo, who bows lightly and gives the servant a grateful smile.
Callista returns it and opens the door. “Good night, then,” she says. “It’s good to have you with us, Your Majesty.”
When the door closes and Callista’s steps fade away, Emily climbs into Corvo’s lap, lower lip trembling. Her eyes remain dry, a testament of her strength and the tears she must have already spilled. She tucks herself under Corvo’s chin and hugs her carefully.
“I missed you so much, Corvo,” she says quietly. “I miss Mother too. But she’s dead, isn’t she? She didn’t survive?”
Corvo smiles sadly at the stubborn hope still surviving in Jessamine’s daughter. “No,” she forces out. She thinks about the Heart. “Her love is with us. But she died. I’m sorry.”
Emily lets out a resigned sigh. “Can I sleep in bed with you?” she asks in a small voice, sad and exhausted and so very, very young. Corvo nods.
They strip down to their undergarments, settle on one of the cots, and wrap themselves in blankets from both beds. Corvo hums a lullaby, half-remembered from her own youth, and holds Emily close.
The Void is warm around her when she opens her eyes. Emily is fast asleep in her embrace. Corvo doesn’t move, perfectly willing to wait the Outsider out if it means holding Jessamine’s child close, letting her sleep.
She starts when the deity snaps into existence inches from the bed they’re on, crouching to eye level. Her face looks more angular, her hair sweeps out and up like a swirl of ink in water, fading into the shadows clinging to her shoulders. Corvo realizes something.
“Granny Rags referred to you as ‘he’,” she says, and only then realizes she spoke out loud. She gasps. “Why can I talk now?”
“Because I want to talk with you,” the Outsider deadpans, and seems to consider the matter closed. “I do find it curious. You lash out with no second thoughts at street ruffians in gang and City Watch garb alike, but spare the lives of your mortal enemies. All the while, Lord Regent’s comfortable seat is starting to wobble. I wonder, what are you thinking when blood of strangers stains your boots, but let your abusers draw breath for another day?”
“I think I would like to sleep,” she murmurs into the crown of Emily’s head.
“ You are sleeping, my dear Corvo, ” the deity answers with a smile. There are too many teeth between her lips, and Corvo closes her eyes.
“I’ll keep you guessing, then,” she says. “More fun for you.”
She can feel the Outsider leaning close, as though her movement stirs water currents that touch Corvo’s face. Then, there is a soft gust of breath warming her cheek. “ You like my attention, do you not?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she lies.
Another current ghosts over her forearms, and her eyes snap open. The Outsider’s fingers ghost over Emily’s face. Corvo reacts instinctively. She grabs the Outsider’s wrist and pushes it away.
In that same instant, the magic bound in her veins flares like a flame doused with lamp oil, and she sees forever.
When her vision clears, the Outsider sits as far as the fragmented walls of the small room allow, an odd mix of rage, curiosity, and ecstasy etched on her face. Her form flickers between the feminine shape Corvo knows, a young man with broad shoulders and features sharp as a sacrificial knife, and something Corvo’s mind cannot wrap around; something enormous; something eternal.
“ What did you do, ” it snarls, voice echoing.
The not-dream collapses, and Corvo is left in the darkness of sleep.