CHAPTER VII

"What time do you call this, Cole?" Zoborik stood in her front doorway, a shawl loose around her shoulders and her curls sticking up in every direction. "Don't answer that," she added, looking over Sweeney's shoulder to the clock tower that dominated the skyline. Sweeney didn't need to look - his journey across Kaldwin's Bridge had been punctuated by the clock striking four bells. The moon hung heavy and fat in the sky, already sinking towards the rooftops.

"I'm sorry," he said. He meant it. Less than a week ago he'd lectured the engineer to take care of herself, but he'd only disturb her if it was a matter of life or death, she knew that. In this case, it was the latter. "There's been another murder. Murders," he amended. "At least twelve dead, at the Bryton Forgeworks."

Zoborik went still, but her gaze was unfocused. Sweeney recognised that expression - her mind was working at a rate of knots. He shifted his weight stiffly. He'd allowed himself to bring his cane; a small concession to the chill in the air. His knees were screaming bloody murder at him. His swollen hands were hidden beneath two layers of gloves.

"Bryton Forgeworks," said Anna softly, tapping her chin with the tip of her finger. Her shawl had slipped from one shoulder. Sweeney looked away. Then she inhaled sharply, suddenly alert. "My aethergraph," she said, motioning for him to come inside. "We will need to stop by my workshop."

Less than half an hour later, they were sitting in a rail carriage with Zoborik's hefty steamer trunk wedged into the floor space between them.
"The workers were striking, yes?" she said, buzzing with energy.

"On and off. They were planning a lock-out later this morning."

"I suspected as much. The Academy is dragging their heels on procuring new tools for me, complaining about the cost of materials." Zoborik gave a disdainful sniff to show what she thought of that. "The body you found on Hearthstone Way was an agitator," she remarked off-handedly.

"I had made that connection, yes." Sweeney didn't mention that he'd also tracked down the girl's brother. That was a conversation he hoped he wouldn't have to revisit for a while.

"Do you still think strikebreakers aren't involved?"

"I don't know what to believe. The pictures you showed me raised more questions than they answered. But if these murders are related…" Zoborik glanced at the trunk at her feet and nodded.

"Then my aethergraph will prove it," she said.

Two walls of light blocked the entrance to Bryton Forgeworks. The first was to keep the rabble out. The breeze coming off the Wrenhaven carried with it the stink of old coins, and already there were curious workers gathering close to the gates. Some held signs, but any thought of their strike was forgotten. The second was a heavily guarded checkpoint and thrown-together workstation, where they were met by an ashen-faced Levitt. He forced a smile and took the handle of the steamer trunk with a courteous bow.

"Hello again, Ms. Zoborik. It's a shame we keep meeting under such grim circumstances."

The engineer glanced him up and down. "You have blood on your shoes." Levitt winced.

"Ah… yes." His lips moved soundlessly for a moment as words failed him. "You… might want to brace yourselves. It's not pretty."

The scene inside the foundry defied the senses. Sweeney was caught so off-guard by the roar of noise from the machines, it took him a full thirty seconds to fully understand what he was looking at. Bodies lay scattered in ragged pieces among toppled workbenches, cast in sharp relief by the Watch's floodlights. Crucibles had overturned, their contents cooling on the floor. Twisted, broken tools lay amongst the bodies. Inside them, too. He could barely breathe the hot, dry air, it was so thick with the metallic stink of iron.

And blood.

So much blood.

At first he'd assumed the darkness spreading across the floor was shadows cast by the floodlights, but then his mind adjusted to what he was seeing. It was a lake , running the length of the foundry and shining a glossy red-black. It ran in rivulets over machines, pooled in moulds, and spattered the broken windows. Beside him, Zoborik pressed her fist to her mouth. Sweeney immediately regretted bringing her here.

"Anna," he called over the noise, "you don't have to-"

"Rot," she interrupted sharply, waving him away. "You brought me here to do a job. Just… give me a moment." She drew a scarf from her pocket and began to tie back her unruly hair with trembling hands. When she was done, she caught Levitt hovering in the doorway with her trunk and snapped her fingers at him.
"Bring that here," she ordered, briskly efficient once more. Sweeney's heart ached a little. "And put it somewhere clean, if you please. Can't you do anything about those?" That last remark was aimed at Sweeney, as she indicated her surroundings with a sweep of her hand. "You know how the aethergraph interferes with powered machinery. The lights, too."

"I'll tell the men to shut 'em down." Levitt was already halfway to the door, clearly eager to get as far from the carnage as possible.

One by one, the machines fell silent. By the time Zoborik had finished setting up her device, the foundry was plunged into darkness as the last echoes faded. Moonlight shone through the shattered windows and skylights overhead. Sweeney vastly preferred it to the harsh glare of the floodlights.

"Is there enough light?" he muttered into the sudden quiet.

"It's not ideal, but I can work with what we have." Zoborik looked up from her eyepiece - she'd eschewed the black cloth, and Sweeney watched her deft fingers adjust the bellows, fully extending them.

"Good. Capture as much as you can. I'm counting on you."

Zoborik blinked up at him. "You're not staying?" Her glaze flicked to the dark corners of the foundry. The shadows took on a murky quality in the moonlight.

"Levitt will keep watch, don't worry."

"Fine, but where are you going?"

"We're dealing with someone or something that can leap out of the darkness and rip a dozen men to shreds," said Sweeney, turning away. "It's high time I reported this to the Empress."

?:?:?:?:?:?

The early morning wind carried a chill from the mouth of the Wrenhaven to the east, and it cut right to Billie's bones. The way she saw it, it was further proof she was getting old, and another reason to think about retirement. It was the kind of cold that slowed your heart, made you sluggish. Up ahead, The Boy trod lightly as he moved through the gloom. Billie kept her distance, letting the smog dampen her footsteps. He gave no indication as to whether he knew she was there, and she was happy to keep it that way. For now.

Her plan to corner The Boy and drag the truth out of him had been soundly thwarted by Ames, who expected her supply runs to arrive on time, the tragic news of Monty's death notwithstanding. Billie had strongly considered refusing the jobs, but The Boy had squirreled himself away, the crafty git, and in the end Billie's greed won out.
She returned shortly before three bells to find him already asleep, and resolved to get him to talk in the morning, after they both had a chance to rest. That was, until he waited just long enough for Billie's breathing to even out, before rising from his bed and creeping purposefully downstairs. He hadn't noticed her watching him in the dark.

Now, as she followed him along sleepy streets, winding their way towards the Old Port district, she realised he was using the same trick he'd pulled the day before, at the safehouse. Her focus kept slipping, his form smearing as if she was seeing him through foggy glass. The effect was disorienting, but she forced herself onward, one foot after the other. She couldn't shake the feeling that, if she lost him completely, she would forget why she was out here at all.

A wooden pier jutted out from the waterfront, where pleasure boats painted in pastel colours clanked against their moorings. Filigreed lamp posts rose from the pier along its length, but Whale oil rationing had rendered them useless. It was impossible to see through the smog, but somewhere on the far side of the river loomed the grey monolith of Dunwall Tower. The Boy's slender shape disappeared into the smog, but Billie heard his hollow footsteps tapping on the wooden boards. She slowed, letting him draw further ahead. There was only one way on and off the pier.

She heard his voice, muffled at first, coming from up ahead. It came in snatches, too low to make out what he was saying. Billie found herself slowing, straining her ears. A dozen scenarios ran through her head - absurd notions of finding him in the midst of a street gang, or entwined upon a bench with some witless boy or girl. In the eerie pre-dawn, anything seemed possible.

"...don't want this. I can't control it." The Boy sat huddled at the end of the pier, gazing into the water. He braced himself with one arm draped loosely over a mooring post. He fell silent, head cocked as if listening for something. Billie leaned into the murk, thinking he'd sensed her approach, but then he spoke again, his voice laced with frustration.
"Then why offer me a choice?" he demanded. "The Void consumes and consumes… why can't it ever be enough?"
He suddenly stiffened, half-turning and staring blindly into the dark. "I know you're there, Billie Lurk," he called. With a sigh, Billie closed the distance between them. She looked down at him, the stub of her arm nestled in the palm of her opposite hand.

"The Whales tell you I was here?" The Boy didn't answer at first, the rise and fall of his skinny chest betraying his unease. "They tell you about Monty, too?"

"How did you find me out here?"

"You're not the only one who can disappear in the shadows. You going to answer my question?" The silence stretched, ocean-deep.

"No," he said eventually. "They didn't."

"But you'd heard about the murder."

"From the mudlarks. They tell me things, in exchange for stories. People are going missing all over Dunwall. Strikers and unionists, even the children who deliver messages for them. The unlucky ones wash up on the shore in The Draper's Ward in pieces."

"Then why the fuck didn't you SAY something?!" Billie exploded. "We could have-"

"-Because that's what I do," The Boy cut in coldly. He got slowly to his feet, and Billie drew back involuntarily. "I watch. I see everything, and feel nothing. I let people's lives and deaths play out in front of me - every drop of blood spilled, every measure of stolen freedom, every heart broken…"
The waves stirred beneath the pier, and the timbers gave a low groan. A chill ran its icy fingers up Billie's spine. She tasted salt on her tongue. "The Void's still here, beneath my skin, seeping out into the world through me. I despise it."

Billie felt a surge of annoyance. "You think you're special, Boy? We've all got parts of ourselves we wish we didn't. But you have a choice." She jabbed a finger at him with a scowl. "Be the black-eyed bastard who watches and laughs, or fight it. Live. "

"You don't think I've tried?" The Boy rounded on her. "After you left for Karnaca, I wore gloves for a whole year, petrified that I would brush against someone wearing Whale bone. I told stories in boarding houses for Coin, keeping the promise I made. But the Whales wouldn't let me go. I heard them in my dreams, kept finding myself at the water's edge with no memory of how I'd got there. They won't let me rest, not while they believe I have a chance at saving them." He looked as if he had a lot more to say, but cut himself off, and turned towards the river mouth, his eyes shining. The wider ocean lay grey and fathomless in the distance.

Like the tide, Billie felt her anger recede. She'd left her Boy. This was on her conscience as much as anything else. "What the hell are they, really?" she said softly. "The Whales. Where did they come from?"

"They're… the beginning," said The Boy. "I don't know how else to explain it. They came from the Void, and they dreamed our world into being. Without their stories, there would be no people. No magic. No life."

"And the bluebloods use them to heat their bathwater." Billie chewed the inside of her cheek, struggling to grasp the enormity of what he was telling her. "And all this time I thought they were really big fish," she said. The Boy's jaw tightened, and she shook her head. "It's a joke, Boy. I believe you. I just don't see what we're supposed to do about it."

"Help me take down Cora Rothwild."

"I- what? Ames' benefactor?"

"Every other Whaling company is on the brink of collapse. The Whales flee to the furthest corners of the world, but nothing can stop Rothwild's ships. She won't rest until the last Whale dies. And by then, it'll be too late for us. The Void will consume…" the boy spread his fingers wide. "...everything."

"Thanks to Abigail Ames and her oh-so-noble cause." Billie snorted, joining the Boy at the railing. "I'm starting to understand why you got involved with her little band of agitators. What were you expecting to do? Take a leaf out of Ames' book and blow up her refineries? Pin the blame on the agitators?" He had a knack for making enemies, that much was certain.

"It's not that simple. Rothwild surrounds herself with powerful people. Her empire grows stronger by the day. And I'm…"

"Only one man," Billie finished for him. One who talked to leviathans, but still. "So," she said slowly, "all we have to do is destroy the empire's biggest Whale oil magnate, without tipping off Ames that we're working against her boss. Oh, and not get killed by a mass murderer in the process." she blew out her cheeks. "I've had worse jobs."

"Then you'll help me?"

"Of course I will. But-" Billie turned and fixed The Boy with her best one-eyed glower. "No more secrets, not from me. We're partners, savvy?" The Boy ducked his head, but Billie caught the edge of a faint smile.

"Partners," he agreed.

?:?:?:?:?:?

Sweeney was exhausted, in intolerable pain, and keenly aware he smelled like a butcher's. He was running on four hours of sleep. The harrowing memory of the foundry made his empty stomach churn with nausea. And, he had been subjected to a thorough and rather undignified pat-down on his arrival to Dunwall Tower. Now he sat at a desk in an airy, brightly-lit study overlooking the harbour, directly opposite the empress. She was flanked by her new royal protector, Wyman. And, to Sweeney's disquiet, a silent and unreadable Corvo Attano.

The empress' face betrayed little as the watch captain painstakingly described the events leading up to the discovery of the bodies at the foundry. He left out the most gruesome details, out of decorum rather than because he thought Emily Kaldwin needed him to. Officially, the witch Delilah had been defeated by the Dunwall's few remaining loyal soldiers. Unofficially, Sweeney knew that was a crock of shit. Even so, he didn't want to sound like the rag-papers. Not in front of the empress, or for that matter, Corvo Attano.
When he mentioned Anna Zoborik's discovery of the shadowy figure captured by her aethergraph, Emily sat up straighter in her seat.

"Her aethergraph showed you this?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. It can record …ghost images, for want of a better term. Like capturing an echo." Behind Emily, Wyman and Corvo wordlessly exchanged a look. For a long moment, the only noise in the room was the ticking of a clock on the mantel.
"I know how this must sound to you," Sweeney went on, unnerved by the silence. His gloved hands tensed around the head of his cane, despite the pain gnawing at him.

"Please," Emily assured him. "Don't misunderstand me. I believe you're telling me the truth. After everything Dunwall has endured, I'd be a fool not to take it seriously. And I've seen first-hand what black magic can accomplish."

"It's my opinion, as well as An- Ms. Zoborik's, that we may be dealing with a witch." Sweeney agreed. He glanced up as Corvo cleared his throat. His form was silhouetted, his back to the window. Sweeney hadn't noticed him move.

"In your opinion, does this… phenomenon pose a direct threat to Lady Emily?" he rasped.

"It's... hard to tell. So far, its victims have been connected to the strikes - workers and agitators. If it's targeting unionists and word gets out, it could spark riots across the city."

"Or escalate into a civil war," Emily sighed, leaning back and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I should have known we hadn't seen the last of our troubles. What do you think, father?"

"I wouldn't normally advise getting involved," said Corvo, "but if there's a witch somewhere in the city and they're connected to Delilah somehow, we can't allow them to remain free in the city."

"If I may?" Wyman raised a hand, and waited until Emily nodded for them to continue. "I understand that the plight of the worker is a burning issue in Parliament of late. A divisive topic, though not without its supporters. There's even talk of a bill being drafted." They wafted their hand in the air as they picked up steam, beginning to pace to and fro. "So, while officially the crown is forbidden to meddle in parliamentary affairs…" they trailed off as they grappled with how to continue delicately, but understanding had already dawned on Emily's face.

"...it would look equally bad if I let outside forces erode the integrity of Parliament under my watch," she said. "Damn it," she added, with feeling.

"It is a bit of a rum do," agreed Wyman sympathetically. "Especially so soon after you dissolved the Abbey-"

"-That's enough," Corvo rumbled warningly, with a meaningful glance at Sweeney. The Royal Protector snapped their mouth shut, looking embarrassed.

Sweeney held his tongue. The conversation had moved beyond him. The empress turned back to him, her brow furrowed.

"Watch Captain, is there someone from your squad who can take command in your absence?"

Sweeney thought of Levitt, and nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Good. Send word to them. From this point onward, this is your investigation. Work quickly, but be discreet. Whatever resources you need are yours. You'll have the full backing of the League of Protectors. If the Watch General complains, refer him to Lord Corvo."

It was a job any self-respecting watchman would kill for, Sweeney thought dazedly as he left the tower and made his weary way back to his rooms, in the hopes of catching a precious hour or two of much-needed sleep. In charge of his own investigation, with the weight of the League of Protectors behind him. It was the kind of job that could see a man retire early, if he succeeded.

All he could think of, though, was the stricken face of Ted Langley, and the crumpled bodies of the foundry workers. How many more grieving families would there be before he caught up with the killer? And, more selfishly, what chance did he have against someone who could leave so much destruction and death in their wake?