She was his mistress, his everything.
She was the witch, and he the familiar.
“I can see you,” she said. “You have done well. All will be prepared. He will be led home. As it has been foreseen, so it shall be.”
The man felt warm and peaceful. He felt like he was floating, as though he were not in his body but rising above it, and looking down on his huddled, ruined form. He was waterlogged and blood-soaked, the communicator cradled in his arms, his cloak billowing in the wind.
“Now sleep,” she said. “You have served me well and your work will not be forgotten. Sleep, then return to me, to Karnaca, to the Royal Conservatory, where the final preparations shall be made.”
Lightning flashed. The gemstone flared with a deep blue light.
“Sleep, sleep.”
He did.
The gemstone faded.
INTERLUDE
THE ROYAL CONSERVATORY, KARNACA
2nd Day, Month of Timber, 1841, Eleven Years before the Dunwall Coup
“I had no doubt that Pandyssia was rich in resources. But a place must be understood if we ever hope to exploit its myriad treasures. These were my thoughts as I agreed to join the ill-fated expedition. And so it was, on the third day of the Month of Earth, under calm gray skies, the great sea vessel Antonia Aquillo set sail with captain, crew, researchers, and myself, (thirty-eight of us in total) for what would be the most terrifying and spiritually draining experience of my life.”
—A REFLECTION ON MY JOURNEY TO THE PANDYSSIAN CONTINENT
Anton Sokolov, excerpt from the Introduction to the second edition, 1822
“Your Grace, my lords and ladies, fellow philosophers, gentlemen—I bid you welcome! You are gathered here tonight at the very nexus of history, the point on which the fulcrum of progress will pivot, as the Empire of the Isles searches that far-distant horizon we call the future! For tonight, we lucky few are privileged to see a glimpse of the new and wonderful age that stretches out before us!”
There was a ripple of laughter from the audience, and only the smallest smattering of applause. Standing center stage in the makeshift auditorium that, for one night only, occupied most of the entrance hall of Karnaca’s Royal Conservatory, Aramis Stilton kept the smile plastered to his face, but he took a breath and held it for a moment.
Idiots. What’s so bloody funny? You’re not supposed to laugh. Honestly, this entire evening is wasted on you.
Then he clapped his hands and joined the audience with a chuckle of his own, but as he stepped closer to the edge of the stage he pursed his lips and gave a slight nod to his stage assistant, Toberman, who was standing in the wings, awaiting his instructions.
Good lad. Young, but keen. Works hard. Mines were no place for him. Shows initiative. Glad to have him on board.
At Stilton’s signal, Toberman touched the brim of hisflat cap and ducked away. A moment later, as Stilton cast his gaze across the audience, the temporary stage lights dimmed suddenly, leaving him illuminated only by the bright white glare of the footlight directly in front of him. For better, eerie effect, Stilton leaned forward over the light—he knew just what it would look like, as he’d had young Toberman stand in the exact same spot earlier that afternoon while he moved around the hall, checking the view from every conceivable angle.
Someone in the audience gasped. Stilton’s smile returned.
Now, that’s more like it.
“My lords and ladies,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “What you are about to see demonstrated before your very eyes this evening pushes at the boundaries of our knowledge. The topic upon which our distinguished guest is about to lecture has until now only been whispered within the hallowed confines of the Academy of Natural Philosophy in the fair Imperial capital of Dunwall.”
Stilton peered out at the crowd, moving his hands to cast a shade—just for a moment—over his face so he could see through the glare of the footlights. It was another hot night in Karnaca, and the audience, squeezed into their finery, were sweating in the close and humid air of the Royal Conservatory, the fans most of the ladies were fluttering sounding like the gentle hum of bees at work.
Ticket sales had been good—very good—and the place was packed. More importantly, the invitations to the very highest levels of Serkonan society had been accepted with pleasure; Stilton allowed his gaze to linger over the silhouette of the Duke, Theodanis Abele, seated in a raised, walled-off area at stage left, next to his son, Luca. The pair were flanked by four officers of the Grand Serkonan Guard.
Stilton felt a swelling of pride within him. Securingthis evening’s star attraction was something of a coup, certainly dispelling the whispers around Karnaca that Stilton, the wealthy businessman known mostly for his mining fortune, was indulging in childish fantasies as only the absurdly wealthy could. Some believed he was investing in the Royal Conservatory not out of any love for art or culture, but merely to have his name engraved at the top of the list of institute benefactors.
I’ll show them. I’ll show them all.
Stilton gave a bow toward the shadow of Theodanis.
At least Theo believes in me.
He held the moment a fraction longer, one beat, two beats, allowing the silence to grow. Then he clapped his hands.
“I have great pleasure in presenting to you, for one night only, the renowned philosopher of all things natural. A giant among men, an intellect the rest of us can only regard with an awe that is well deserved.” He bowed and sidestepped, gesturing back toward the center of the stage. “Please welcome our illustrious speaker, former Head of the Academy of Natural Philosophy, now Professor Emeritus: Anton Sokolov.”
The crowd erupted into applause as the curtain—another temporary fixture, but one which Stilton had insisted was somehow installed and made operational, cost be
