Chapter 1

Callista stared up at the hulking expanse of the Holger Square offices of the Abbey. It was midday, but the compound seemed to blot out what little sunlight was getting through the clouds. The square itself was still slick with rain, and she made herself walk across the entrance. Today, luckily, there were none of the heretics that could occasionally be found locked in the stocks for public humiliation and reeducation, and so there were no crowds, and no howls of pain or pleadings for forgiveness. She reached the main square, where black banners hung from the rooftop of the building, and patrols of Overseers stalked in orderly routes, hounds snarling and pacing at their heels.

Thaddeus Campbell, one of the most powerful men in Dunwall, was dead. She hardly cared. It was a footnote to her fear and grief. She clutched at the piece of paper balled up in her fist, and crossed to the guard post.

It was hard to gauge the Overseer's expression behind his hideous mask, but the movement of his head suggested he was looking her over. "State your business," he said, voice muffled and distorted by the brass.

He was, she supposed, less gruff and a bit more relaxed than the men guarding the entrance to Holger. She cleared her throat and clutched at the paper again. "I'm- to meet Overseer Martin. He's cleared me, at the gate."

The Overseer didn't respond. Obviously he had cleared her - otherwise nobody would have let her in. She was shaking all the way down to her carefully polished shoes and best stockings, and she straightened her shoulders, puffing out her chest in the hope that it would help make her trembling less obvious.

"I need directions and an escort to- to the east meeting room," she said, then added in a rush, "or at least that's what they told me."

"Right," the Overseer said. He stepped back from the window and turned away from her. He said something, but Callista barely marked it; her usual pinprick acuity in times of stress was blanketed over by the rushing of her blood in her ears, the overawareness of her own isolation.

Geoff must be out of the city by now. It was a certainty. She repeated it over and over again instead of the Strictures, and hoped that the Overseers had no way of knowing.

The door to the guard post opened, and an Overseer stepped out. It was impossible to tell if he was the same one she'd spoken to; their uniforms were all cleaned and pressed, and there wasn't much variation in their builds. She'd heard rumors that they were selected as much for their likely ability with a sword as they were for the stars being favorable; perhaps they were even chosen to be interchangeable. He didn't speak a word, and so she was deprived even of a voice that she couldn't have hoped to recognize in the state she was in. She followed as he led her towards the great doors of the Abbey, into the marble hall where no sermons were currently being read.

The building was strangely silent. She had visited only a few times before, for funerals and a few public services, but each time the marble floors and vaulted ceilings had made the sermons boom and echo; they had followed her wherever she went. Now she could only hear the distant hum of electric defenses and the march of feet. She frowned and kept her head down and her hands clasped before her as she followed her guide up the stairs three floors to a hall draped not in black but in red. Overseers stood by every door along the passageway. They stopped in front of the last door in the hall, and as he knocked, she realized that, by her calculations, they were in the west arm of the building.

She tried to swallow down her terror, but it began squirming up her throat like the still-alive octopi and squids they served down by the docks, in the open fish markets.

"Enter," said somebody inside the room. His voice was muffled by the heavy wood of the door, but it sounded confident, easy.

Her escort opened the door, then stepped back to give her room to enter. "Will there be anything else, Brother Martin?" he said.

"No, nothing," said Martin, who was still out of view. The room hooked off to the left, past where she could see, and while not a meeting room, it was a comfortable, clean office. "Come on, then. Let me see you."

Callista glanced at her escort, and the red-bannered walls, then took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The door closed behind her.

The room was warm and largely lit by a crackling fire. Callista edged towards it and scanned the room for Martin. She found him sitting at a desk tucked away from the door, elbows on the surface of it, chin propped on one loosely curled fist.

"I do see the family resemblance," he mused, his mouth curling into a slow smirk. "Come on, sit down. I'm impressed that you came - and so soon."

"I had nowhere else to go. My uncle-"

"Is currently a suspect in the murder of Thaddeus Campbell. I'm sure half the barracks are getting chains ready for you, since you gave your last name at the gate."

Her blood chilled. "A suspect in-"

"He didn't tell you?" Martin sat back, quirking a brow, then rose and went to a sideboard. He poured a fingersworth of what looked like brandy into a glass, then returned to his desk and set it on the far edge, closest to her. "I guess it's not something he's strictly proud of. Come on, sit. We have much to talk about, Miss Curnow."

"He told me he had to flee the city. That something had gone- wrong," she said as she edged towards the chair drawn up to his desk. It looked plush and comfortable.

"Both true statements," Martin said, nudging the glass a little closer to her.

"He- he gave me your name," she said, lowering herself gingerly into the seat. "He said to go to you if I ever needed help."

Martin hummed low in his throat. "Help. Yes, I am here to help. I owe your uncle a great deal."

"Owe?" she asked, looking between him and the glass. "My uncle didn't gamble, as far as I'm aware."

"Circumspect. I like that. You're asking around the real issue quite nicely." His smirk transformed into a grin. "No, it's not a gambling debt. I would like you to trust me, and speak openly with me. After all, I have already let you into the hall that contain all the contenders for the office of High Overseer."

She shifted, torn between the ease he exuded and well-learned caution. "And what about the east meeting room?"

"Is a misdirection, should any visitors be here to take advantage of the chaos. By your obedience and obvious fear, you seem to have put my men at ease. My men, mind you. It's the others ready to lock you in chains." He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a cigarette case, then paused.

He looked her over, all the narrow, pinched inches of her wound tight with fear, then leaned forward once more. "Let's start over. My name is Teague Martin, I knew your uncle briefly, and I would like to help you in whatever way you need help."

"This is all, you understand, happening very quickly, and I don't have all the pieces. Could you do more than hint at what happened last night?"

"I would like to tell you, Miss Curnow - but that would require a level of trust that we haven't reached yet." His ever-present smirk turned faintly sad at that, and he focused on extracting a cigarette from its case and lighting its tip in the flame of the whale-oil lamp on the corner of his desk.

"Is my uncle only a suspect?"

He regarded her for a long moment, smoke curling from his fingers. "No. He killed the High Overseer."

Callista closed her eyes, grimacing. She thought back to Geoff, appearing at the door of her small apartment, furtive and shaking as she'd never seen him shake before. He had been uncharacteristically jumpy. He'd offered no explanations, only kissed her brow, written out Martin's name, and told her he would be leaving at dawn - and to not try to follow him. Two hours after he'd gone, the loudspeakers began blaring with news of Campbell's death.

She'd had her doubts. Now they were certainties. She breathed in, deeply. The only way out was forward, and the past had so far never allowed her to change it. Her fingers curled tightly around one another in her lap.

Tink tink went Martin's finger against the glass in front of her. She opened her eyes to find him watching her.

"It might help," he suggested, then pulled his hand away and took a long drag of his cigarette. Smoke curled from his nose.

Callista reached for her glass. "So there's no chance of him ever coming back, then, is there," she said, the words not forming a question at all.

"No, not really," Martin said. "At least not for a few years, a decade maybe. Time enough for a regime change or two to happen. Though given a sympathetic High Overseer, one who was glad to see Campbell go... well. Timelines could be accelerated." He chuckled. "Go ahead, Miss Curnow. Drink. Your uncle was right to send you to me - you're safe here."

Safe.

She tilted her head back and swallowed down the whole glass.

"So what's the part you can't tell me?" she asked, after the burning of her mouth had slowed.

He chuckled. "I can't tell you that, Miss Curnow. But I can help in other ways."

"I only care about what happened."

"That's what brought you all this way, to a stranger's door?" He clucked his tongue.

"My uncle said to come-"

"-if you needed help. Do you need help?"

She swallowed, thickly, and turned in her seat, looking around the room. It seemed small for what it was, but it was still as large as her entire apartment, which was tucked in an older, poorer section of the Legal District. Her apartment was comfortable. But-

"I just wanted answers," she said, and slowly stood. "Thank you, for giving me what you could."

He didn't move from behind his desk. "Think carefully before you leave. I can't have you running back to me tomorrow, or the next day. It would look suspicious. As it is, I can spin a story of how you've come for guidance after hearing your uncle confess to- well." He spread his gloved hands slowly.

"As it is, that's all I've done," she said. "I don't see how that's a story."

His smile turned indulgent, as if she were a small, guileless child. "Spiritual guidance, Miss Curnow. Your choice of me will already raise questions - I'm not a particularly forward-facing member of the Abbey. You understand?"

Her mind spun and lurched, but she couldn't make sense of the pieces. Obviously he knew a great deal of what had happened with her uncle and Campbell. Was it dangerous for him to admit it, then?

She had to get out, to breathe.

"I'm fine. Thank you, though," she said, wrapping her arms around herself. The walls of the Abbey seemed far too heavy, too thick, and she felt trapped. She thought of the Overseers with chains waiting for her, wanting a chance to drag her in for heresy, for her connection to Geoff.

No, she was better off distancing herself from the Abbey as best she could. That had to be what Martin was after as well; if they could arrest her for being Geoff's niece, then perhaps he would face censure as well for offering her guidance.

My uncle killed the High Overseer. She still housed a hundred thousand questions. Why? How? Had he been angry or simply calculating? No, not calculating; she'd seen in his eyes that he hadn't planned what had happened last night. But he was gone, and wouldn't return. She was alone. And no matter what Martin said, she wasn't safe here.

"Unless you have any other details of last night that you can tell me," she said, "I'll leave you to your work."

"If you must," he said. His charming smile was back in place.

"Thank you, for telling me the truth," she added, gaze settled on his nose instead of his eyes.

"Of course, Miss Curnow. Shall we consider my debt to your uncle discharged, then?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Of course." His smile widened. For a moment, it looked dangerous, predatory.

And then she turned and rejoined her escort in the hall.

Setting her uncle's small library in order was soothing. Standing anywhere in his apartment stirred up equal parts grief and comfort, but she had found, in the first hour, that doing anything in his apartment made the grief fade into the background.

He was gone, it was true, almost as certainly as if he had died - but she had prepared for this. Her life had been a never-ending series of trials, and they had hardened her heart and taught her how to ignore the things she needed to ignore. She ignored the perishable food that was left, half-eaten, in his pantry. She ignored the rumpled bedsheets. She ignored every sign that just two days ago, Geoff Curnow had been a living person who breathed and moved and was.

Instead, she curated the art piece that was her memory of him. It was dangerous to dwell on his personhood, so she made him into a historical figure. This was where he had polished his gun. That was where he would sit on long nights when the shadows of the past clawed at him and made him drink until he was no longer sitting, no longer awake, and it was no longer night. She honored no memories of them, ignoring all the reminders that she had lived here with him in this apartment for three years, before she'd reached majority.

Yesterday, she'd tidied the sitting room, and his pots and pans. Today it was his books. Tomorrow- tomorrow she'd have to look to his bedding and linens, if only to put them away in a trunk.

She read none of the books she organized, thumbed through no worn pages, looked for no imprints of his name or his life on their frontispieces and spines and binding. She put them in order, straightened a chair, and stepped back.

This was all hers now.

Geoff had bought this apartment outright a year ago. He'd told her (here the memory grew dangerous) that he didn't want to lose anything else, even if it was just a building, just a series of rooms. He'd made the mistake, he'd said, of selling his old house, the one where their family had gathered and celebrated in the years before everybody began to die off. It had seemed reasonable at the time. He'd thought it would help him move on.

It hadn't, though, and he had learned. This had been his. And now it passed to her; her tiny apartment couldn't compare, and she couldn't stand to see it go to anybody else but a Curnow.

She'd hoped to find notes, a letter, something that explained to her in more detail what Geoff had done or where he had gone, but there had been nothing. A few items were missing from the apartment, but he'd left most of his keepsakes behind. It was as if he'd just gone off to the countryside for a weekend.

Callista refused to let herself entertain the fantasy.

She was tidying up the small collection of miniature urns that held tiny fragments of her parents and siblings, aunts and uncles and cousins, the last of their remains that weren't scattered, when she heard heavy, authoritative knocking at the front door. One of her uncle's men, no doubt, come once more to look for the traitor Captain. She'd sent three of them away over the last few days already. Sighing, she dusted off her suit and passed from the study to the narrow hall that led to the door.

"In the name of the Lord Regent, open this door!"

She froze.

"Just break it down," another man said. His voice was muffled, but it spurred her to action. She scrambled to the door and undid the latch, hands trembling.

Five men of the Watch looked down at her as she pulled the door open.

"Yes, officers?" she asked.

One she knew, vaguely; he'd been under her uncle's direct command several years ago, and had smiled at her indulgently. She'd reminded him, he said, of his own niece, now some years gone to Tyvia. His name had been-

"Callista Curnow?" the familiar officer said.

"Yes?"

"Under orders from the Lord Regent, we are to take you into custody and seize your uncle's house. It would be in your best interest to come quietly."

Her fingers curled on the doorframe. "Excuse me?" Seize your uncle's-

"Geoff Curnow has been named a traitor of the Empire," he said as another officer grabbed her by the arm. "His assets are forfeit."

"His house passes to me in the event of his death," she said, wide-eyed, struggling against the man pulling her from the threshold.

"Have you proof of his death, Miss Curnow?" somebody asked - the officer who had shouted at her to open the door.

"It doesn't matter. The Abbey will have our hides if we don't clear the building. Get her somewhere else."

"Unhand me!" she shouted, disbelief turning to rage. "My uncle is innocent!"

"Your uncle was seen arguing with the High Overseer, and has since disappeared from the city," Geoff's old friend said, snarling. "And the wounds on Campbell's body were made by a Watchman's sword. You'd do well to watch your tongue, girl. We're doing you a favor."

She jerked hard against the man holding her, but he only wrapped his other arm around her shoulders, pinning her against his chest. He smelled like stale beer and piss - Lower Watch. She looked around, frantically. The men were a mix; two Upper Watch officers, the other three grunts, the violent, cruel sort that Geoff had always warned her about. And somewhere else in the stairwell and hall she could hear booted footsteps, and the telltale pink-plonking of Overseers with their music boxes.

Her mother's ashes were still above the fireplace.

"Let me go!" she pleaded, eloquence fading fast. "I had nothing to do- I had no idea-"

"That's for the Regent's men to decide," the man holding her murmured, then laughed. "You absolutely sure you won't know where your uncle went when they've got a red hot poker to you?"

Her chest tightened. She cried out and kicked at him, trying to get him to release her, but he seemed to delight in her struggling. He lifted her an inch from the ground. Her mind spun with images of shackles and spikes and how she was only strong in certain ways, how pain would make her break and she would tell them lie after lie to get them to stop.

She felt tears on her cheeks long before she realized she was crying.

The plinkity-plonking grew louder, and the Watchman holding her went still. She turned ideas over, frantically, one after the other. She had to get out.

Overseers.

She thought of Overseer Martin in his nice office, with his offer of help and safety. Maybe she could buy herself some time.

"I'm Overseer Martin's assistant!" she hissed, not loud enough for the approaching Overseers to hear, but loud enough to be noticed. Her uncle's friend turned, startled, before his brows drew down in a scowl.

"And I'm the Empress," he snapped.

"A-ask them!" she said waving a hand at the stairway. "Have them send for Martin! He'll confirm it! You have no right to hold me!"

"Orders of the Regent," he ground out, then grimaced - and stepped out into the hall proper to greet the Overseers who had turned the last corner in the stairs and were now emerging into the hall. Wolfhounds trailed at their heels, prowling low with their snarling snouts thrust forward.

Callista watched them all warily.

"The apartment is secure?" one of the Overseers asked, voice distorted by his mask.

The officers shifted in place. Her uncle's old friend cleared his throat. "Secure, but unswept. We have Curnow's niece in custody. She wants to see Overseer Martin, says she's his assistant - as if you lot ever had assistants. We'll make sure to teach her a lesson for you."

The Watchman holding her tightened his arms as if he'd forgotten she was there. Her chest ached and her vision began to blur, her face feeling tight and overwarm.

Distantly, she saw one of the Overseers step forward. He had a red slash of fabric peeking out from above his wide belt. As she watched, he reached for his mask and tipped it up.

Overseer Martin looked at her appraisingly, then to the man holding her. "Set her down," he said.

Relief blossomed inside of her, choking up her throat and making her go limp. The guard hadn't released her yet, but he would.

"The Lord Regent said-"

"The Lord Regent is relaying the Abbey's wishes," he said. "And the Abbey says to put her down."

The arms around her loosened somewhat. The man who had looked on her as a niece stepped forward, towards Martin. "And who are you to speak for the Abbey?"

"Teague Martin, second under consideration for the office of High Overseer. And you are?"

The guard's lip twitched, and the muscles in his neck stood out- but he deferred, taking a step back. "Reginald Black," he said, stiffly.

"Well, Officer Black. If you could get your man over there to let go of my assistant?"

"You confirm her story, then?"

She met Martin's brief glance. His confident smile was still there, but it was small, contained with military precision. He had his arms clasped behind his back at the moment, but as she watched, he gestured with all the grace of a trained orator. "This woman was my source for confirming Geoff Curnow's guilt and the fact that he has fled Dunwall. I have since hired her on as an asset to the Abbey. I would appreciate if you put her down."

The man holding her laughed. "Guilt? This bitch was going on and on about his innocence. You're a fool to believe a thing she says."

"And what would you say, in her position? Her uncle's men come to her door, threaten to- what, torture her? She doesn't know what you want to hear from her, so all she can do is pretend she's oblivious. It doesn't take a devoted Abbey man to understand human nature that much." Casually, he played with the hilt of his sword. "So, I will repeat - I would appreciate it if you put her down. The Abbey claims not only custody of her, but protection for her. I'd hate for this to descend into the sort of strife Captain Curnow was trying to create by pitting our men against one another."

Officer Black clenched his jaw, but at last waved a hand. The man holding her slowly set her back down and released his hold on her. She crumpled into a heap at his feet, gasping for breath and shaking too hard to stand.

"The Regent didn't say anything about this arrangement."

"The Regent isn't informed of all goings-on in the Abbey. Clear the apartment," Martin said, with a wave of his hand. "But don't turn it over to Timsh just yet. I want to do a sweep of it myself once you're certain it's secure. My men will assist."

Black glared at Martin, but his men and the Overseers followed him when he turned and walked into the apartment. Callista watched them go, hunched forward, bowed over herself. She wrapped her arms tight around her waist, and tried to focus on breathing.

She was alive. She was in the middle of a horrible, horrible nightmare, but she was alive.

Leather creaked as Martin crouched beside her. She lifted her head. He looked ridiculous with his mask off but his black hood still up, his face overly wide with his hair and ears covered by black fabric, and pink indents where the mask had rested on his flesh. A small, hysterical laugh slipped out of her. It was quickly followed by a few broken sobs until she gasped for breath and swallowed it all down.

"Thank you," she said when she could speak again. It came out broken and thin.

"I believe you now owe me," he said with an easy smile as he balanced his weight over his heels. "An infinitely preferable situation. Can you stand?"

"I don't know," she confessed. She half-expected him to reach for her, but he didn't. Instead, he simply watched her.

I owe him. The thought sat uneasily with her. Geoff had told her, over and over as she grew up in his care, every time he returned with another horrible story of something seen on the job, or something one of his men had done to an innocent bystander, to never leave herself vulnerable to anybody - let alone somebody who carried a sword easily. Geoff had been very clear on that. Geoff had...

She began to cry again, her tears accompanied by the sounds of breaking objects inside the apartment. She didn't want to think on what they might be. She buried her face against her knees and let her shoulders heave until she could still them again.

When she looked up once more, Martin was still watching her.

"Come to Holger tomorrow," he said.

"What?"

"You told them you were my assistant, so my assistant you need to be. Come to Holger, I'll get everything in order."

"I can't-"

"You've put me in an interesting position, you know. To my knowledge, the Abbey has never employed somebody like you. We're rather insular. My brothers may take some convincing."

"Then what will you do?"

"I am nothing if not an innovator, Miss Curnow."

"I can't let you do this. It was- it was the only thing I could think of. I'm sorry."

"You're a governess, right?" he asked. "Between jobs at the moment?"

She nodded, slowly.

"But all the rich merchants and all the lords have sent their children out of Dunwall for the season, until the plague calms, and nobody else can afford you. That's a miserable situation to be in. Why didn't you ask for help the other night? Without income, you're little better than a rat in a gutter."

Callista flushed, hot. "I'll make ends meet. I always have."

"Yes, I'm sure. But without your uncle around to make sure things don't go badly for you..."

"He didn't."

"Oh yes, he did. I've been looking into you and your uncle a lot over the last few days - partially because of the inquest into Campbell's murder, and partially to understand what I'm dealing with. Your uncle threatened and bribed a great many people to not only keep you from being belittled and threatened like all the other single young women in our fair city, but also to make sure any failings in, say, your ability to pay rent were overlooked." Martin shrugged. "He clearly cared for you. But now you must consider your future without him, Miss Curnow."

Her jaw tightened. Her chin trembled.

"I don't tell you this to frighten you," he said.

She slapped him.

He responded with only a laugh. He touched his cheek gingerly, then stood. "I suppose I deserved that."

Callista glared up at him.

He rubbed at his cheek a moment, then pulled his mask back down into place. "You could do worse than being an assistant to the next High Overseer. But - I suppose - if you decide you'd rather take your chances on your own, I'll cover for you. Either way, I'll make sure you're safe"

"Why?" she asked. "Why protect me?"

"Because you're clever," he said. "And because you trusted me enough to rely on me to protect you just now. I'm returning the favor by living up to your expectations." He glanced to the apartment. "Is there anything you would like me to preserve? I'll do my best to make sure the apartment ends up back in your possession, but I can't promise anything. A trinket or two, though-"

"The funeral urns on the mantle," she said, finally standing despite the trembling of her legs. "... Thank you."

He inclined his head to her; she imagined his smug smile beneath the metal grin. "Your uncle did me a great favor, Miss Curnow; I have much to be thankful for because of your line. I hope to see you tomorrow."

She watched as he turned and disappeared into Geoff's apartment. Alone in the hall, she looked towards the stairs.

Geoff's lessons had been very clear - protect herself at all costs.

She left the building at a slow, steady limp, headed for her apartment in the Legal District.