A sharp wind picked up when Corvo arrived at the marketplace, making him even more glad to have brought his wool scarf. Every once in a while a passer-by would stare at him profoundly, recognize him, and whisper among one another. He expected this—his absence came at a complete and total surprise, right when he was meant to finish up a case he himself picked out, turning the state of his return all the more exasperated. Too many people believed the famed detective was lost in a mist of obscurity; he walked forth almost mechanically, as though he himself did not notice his disappearance.
Heaven forbid anyone make a scene, thought Corvo.
There was very little activity in the market. About ten or so booths were set up along the town square, some sturdier and more appealing than others. Some folk were even closing up early due to the unusual cold, especially at a time like this.
A short man on the side of the road called out to Corvo. He had a sickly countenance in long sheepskin coat, who was standing by his wagon, clasping his hands together in their leather gloves to keep warm. His beard was white and ragged.
"Aye, Corvo Attano!" he cried. "What are you doing out here? You been the talk of Dunwall for a whole week. Dare I say you are the most to carry on so."
"I suppose we all need our conversation starters," replied Corvo with a smile.
"Very true!" laughed the short man. "Careful who you approach. They might just ask what you been doing."
"Sightseeing, you can say."
"Sighting? Heh! Anything happen? Anything uneasy?"
"Not particularly. I went off for a break, nothing important. Now I am quite starved, so if you will excuse me..."
"Ech! What a life." The short man heaved a sincere sigh. "Bye-bye!"
"Hmm, farewell."
He walked to the closest stall that was selling food, drinks, and other goods. He knew this one—the forsaken lady who worked there was a big fan of his, and her small business was a great consolation for her. She was fairly respected among the town, and would strike up conversation whenever the mood called for it. But this was all very strange, Corvo went on to think, that before this place felt like home, everything about Dunwall and its districts were familiar. But now, at a time like this, he found himself caring very little. This did not surprise him, and so he went along with a grim nonchalance.
"Greetings, Varie," said Corvo as he approached the middle-aged marketwoman.
"Oh, Corvo, by the stars!" she exclaimed warmly, swiping her bare forehead with a cloth and immediately began shuffling within the cupboards.
"Closing up soon?"
"Not till you arrived! Oh ho, what dealings were you after for the past week? Life is just dreadful without a handsome man like you round."
"Ha, ha, I really am flattered! Cannot say the same for recent monopolies. Have you been reading the news?"
"Of course, of course!" She grabbed hold of a butcher knife and inspected the netted meat hanging above. "I see so many folk everyday, most are really forgettable."
Corvo scanned the products available, pondering.
"What will it be?" she asked with stern emphasis.
"Whatever keeps be alive," he chuckled, and pulled out his wallet. "Strip of dried goat, double the usual size; hunk of bread; and... what drinks are you peddling?"
"A certain few. Cognac, vodka, whiskey, brewed spir—"
"Whiskey please."
"And a bottle?"
"Two bottles."
"Oh, I only got one."
"I will take the one then."
She wrapped the bought items with a thin plastic and stuffed them in a paper bag, gave it to Corvo as he handed over a handful of coins, and he was on his way.
Suddenly a man in a violent rage darted out from the arcade of shops close by. He was a young man, native to Dunwall, with dark, curly hair and a twisted, pale face, marked with smallpox. He wore a long grey coat and a peaked cap, and looked like an unknown and poor merchant’s clerk. He was in a state of stupid excitement and brandished his wobbly fist at Corvo.
"Oi, you, you, Attano!" he cried loutishly. "Do you job for once, will you!"
Corvo stared at him. He could not recall when he could have had a row with the man. But he had been in so many of them in the street with the lower class—almost none he started, mind you—that he could hardly remember them all.
"What is your problem?" said Corvo, scanning the man gravely.
"Your fault! Your fault!" cried the man idiotically.
"Whatever is my fault?"
"Get out of here, shoo!" cried the marketwoman angrily. "Sorry about this lad, Corvo. He refuses to leave passers-by alone, claiming he be cheated or something, and blames you."
"What cheated him?" asked Corvo.
"The Wandering Stranger took my family!" the man went on. "Cut 'em loose from me as if with a pair of scissors! You weren't there to finish the business. Guards did not interfere, 'not our business or time,' said you were supposed to look into it. You never did!"
"So much the better for you; that is not my fault." Corvo resumed his walk back home.
"Whose fault is it then? Whose? Whose?" repeated the man gloomily. "No one can swallow the Wandering Stranger case no more, no one can take it to heart no more, they given up! They let him run round and kill folk! You do nothing, you don't do your job!"
"Go back to your shed, or wherever it is you live," sighed Corvo, not willing to put up with this nonsense.
"Your fault! Your fault!" the man went on in hostility, getting awfully close; but he didn't even dare to lay a finger on Corvo, as he knew that would end badly.
The marketwoman began scolding the desperate man, who then left in a senseless state, and right after he tipped over, fell to the ground, and remained in an alley for half the night. But that all faded into silence as Corvo walked back to his house. The wind was getting harsher, and the sun was nearly fully sunken below the horizon.
What the hell was he talking about? swept through Corvo's mind. Wandering Stranger and dead peasants? How could that have happened this week?
Corvo was pondering severely, unclear of what to make of this distressing news. Then he remembered: crime goes largely unresolved for the lower class, partly because the guards take no interest in their affairs, and it does not pay well. Corvo reflected on this fact and admitted that he, too, only ever took up the highest paying cases, and never once concerned himself with the bottom of the barrel.
This does not make any sense, Corvo went on thinking. My last activity as the Wandering Stranger was ten days ago. Was the poor sod mistaken? Likely.
At last he arrived home. He ate his food instantly, and right after went back to his desk. After eating he took a sip of whiskey, and his spirits and heart grew lighter.
That yellow parchment caught Corvo's attention once again. Hardly an elegant or professional paper, testifying to its crude text, riddled with grammatical errors, and worn textures, roughly felt all the way to its curly edges.
He read the paper quickly and was thoroughly unimpressed, making him wonder why had he taken interest in the first place. It was a notice from two days ago speaking of murdered wives and kids, family and friends, referencing two incidences: one yesterday and the other the day before. The culprit was allegedly the Wandering Stranger, of which the notice provided a testimony about how people saw a distant shadow come and go, and it ended in bloodbaths. It was written to him, but not specifically signed, and could only have been produced by the lower district townsfolk.
"So these are the dice that man was complaining about," said Corvo to himself. He huffed irritably, crumpled the notice, and tossed it aside. "Wandering Stranger, huh? A rumour, I would wager, but one with a modicum of concern. More so, how did a lower-class citizen make it past the walls of light? He is not supposed to be here. Hmm, perhaps I should have arrested him."
Corvo scanned over the royally stamped documents, the ones that actually mattered, and began reading them. It was the usual, mostly—that it, the dirty work, whether it be homicide or illegal businesses, often leading him to work within the worst, least protected parts of the city, always at the complaints of the nobles. Corvo was lucky to be the most well renowned and respected detective in Dunwall, since this led to everyone fighting for his attention. And that meant the highest pay.
He got comfortable and decided not to go back outside.
The fellow got off lucky today, thought Corvo, but I best not adopt a lazy habit. Tomorrow I will go out for a walk, arrest him then if he's still causing trouble.
* * *
It was the nineteenth of December—a little over seven months since his and Serath's return from Equestria—when Corvo ringed the bell at the mansion's door, after having climbed up a wearying long flight of steps. There was six inches of snow at this time, and more yet to come.
He had been quite distracted in that moment.
A foreign detective, one from the north, was staying in Dunwall this year, along with his wife. But that is a criminally underdeveloped description, so allow me to elaborate.
This foreign detective, the much esteemed Fredric Apollinov, was, to the knowledge of every noble and informed reader, and to my own as well, the most famous and renowned detective in the country, and arguably the most accomplished and talked-of in the whole continent. His track record was mind-numbingly astonishing—his skill and intelligence was legendary, testifying acutely to his several records in where he had solved the most unsolvable cases, and many of those times he came to the conclusion on his own. Apollinov's very merits landed him interviews and invitations to the joyous interactions of a great many famous writers and officials; his inhuman ability to extract the most factual details of any given scene, effectively abating the situations surrounding his work, was brought up to furious debate among criminologists: just how did he do it? In short, by the general consensus: the greatest analytical mind this world has ever seen.
When Apollinov and his wife took to stay in Dunwall, for reasons currently unknown, many people were both surprised and excited. The high standards shone on the detective's sleeves: an old mansion, distinctly tasteful, consistently kept clean and maintained, rented out for six months, right at the start of June. That means he was up to his final month, and he meant to be leaving at the beginning of January.
Before we begin, let me recount what the famed Apollinov had been up to in Dunwall, that is, his work for the past six or so months. He would be requested dozens of times on a daily basis by the investigators to lend aid in their own city's problems. He would oblige every now and again, but for most of the time he remained shut up in the mansion, often while his wife went out to get to know Dunwall "from the inside out." He had been enraptured in intensive research and study, of which we shall get to soon enough.
At the present his wife had decided to host a soirée of the sorts, typical of such wealthy and well educated women. Many great minds from all across the country had been invited, and not a single one refused, and that included Corvo, the most acknowledged detective of his city, who himself was extraordinarily curious. Dunwall was a massive place, and as such he never had the chance to meet Apollinov before. Corvo decidedly read into his work, wondering about the positive commotion, which by the end left terribly impressed and even somewhat inspired.
Many other detectives were invited, many renowned academics and criminologists. Corvo had read the guest list, recognizing roughly a two-thirds of them. Serath wasn't invited, but either way he would not have been able to join—ever since the success of his PhD thesis, the doctor was almost always at work in the university. Arbmos was not invited, but once again he would not have been able to join. He developed a serious fever in the past six months, and while many assumed he would overcome it, the problem only grew graver. Nowadays Arbmos sat on his deathbed, the man was seriously ill, could hardly speak, sometimes did not even react to things right in front of his face. Serath's assistant had previously looked into his condition and guessed it was a case of tuberculosis; but it was only a guess. No doctor could know for certain.
That brings us back to Corvo, and like I mentioned, he felt partly distracted, although by what exactly he did not know. He had calculated that Apollinov only sent out invitations to people he knew one hundred percent would show up. A smart decision, to put it plainly.
Quite a lot of things I plan on asking him, Corvo went on to think. There are at least seven cases I was never able to solve, but not Mr. Apollinov. The man's resume is quite flawless. Hmm, and judging by this scenery, he and his wife have not spared their expenditure.
A superbly dressed chamberlain attended the door. He did not even need to confirm in the guest book if this happened to be Corvo. He bowed at once out of propriety and Corvo walked in.
The soirée looked to be in full swing. Two graceful stairways arched up to a second floor, but guards stood solidly in the way, representing the message that guests may only wander in the ground floor, and no further. The second floor is where Fredric Apollinov's work must be located, Corvo immediately assumed.
The foyer was furnished and arranged; two wide hallways led to separate rooms on either side, the smoking lounge and the dinner table. Several nobles, all lavishly dressed, were scattered about, discussing whatever seemed to be interesting that night, which just so happened to be Apollinov's special announcement. You see, this supposed announcement garnered much traction, about two weeks ago ever since the idea of an imminent soirée was brought up.
Corvo wished to directly ask Apollinov about the Wandering Stranger, and if he came to Dunwall for that very case, predicated among the insurmountable requests and rewards; but such bluntness did not seem like a very practicable thing to do. Then, again, there was another particular question, to which he could not find an answer; dared not, in fact, to speak of it; but at the very idea of which he kept highly astute.
That question is this: what were the causes of these missing impecunious families, and why were they all tied to the Wandering Stranger, that being him? He could not blame the justice department for ignoring such a case; he did so himself seven months ago, but only, as will be made apparent, at first; he had been investigating this case for a long time now ever since he sensed that some nameless force was working in the shadows to expose him, and took advantage of the outer districts to ensure no suspicion. Ever since then he took up the case, much to the confusion of his colleagues, but they held no objections. He, however, treated it like a side activity, that is, he observed it in his free time. And so far—nothing; nothing save for a few unique deaths, one in particular involving traces of a special metal known as caesium on the victim's corpse. But as it currently stands, none of this is worth noting.
But now was not the time to be so alert. His eye caught the sight of Apollinov. The esteemed detective was talking with another person, a woman in a white dress. I believe Apollinov had chatted with at least a dozen persons ever since the soirée kicked off, and now most were off having a good time. Corvo approached him.
Apollinov, a middle-aged fellow of forty-eight, of robust height and agreeable countenance, looked much older than his years; at least sixty years old many guessed, only to be surprised. He was wide-chested, moderately built, and showed signs of spectacular physical health and strength. And yet there was something strangely ill about his face—it was rather thin, his cheeks were hollowed, and there was an off-putting sallowness in their colour. His rather prominent, ghostly dark eyes had an expression of good-natured competition, and yet there was a vague look in them. His chin was shaven and smooth, contrasting with his rigid mustache, curled at the tips.
"It is hard to tell what he thinks," those who talked to him sometimes declared. But Apollinov nevertheless laughed at the most appropriate and expected times, instilling ease in others, resembling the complete merriment of his sociable character, bearing witness to mirthful and light-hearted thoughts at the very time when his eyes were so gloomy. Gloomy, but alive. By extension of his talkative nature, Apollinov was an unbelievably intimidating person to introverts, but up-close folk bore witness to a sharp and genuinely caring man.
He, too, was stylishly dressed in a buttoned frock coat, and Corvo had attended the soirée in his expensive greatcoat, the black one with gold-rimmed cuffs. Apollinov's dark hair, grey at the temples, was combed back.
As Corvo approached he heard the women who was speaking with Apollinov—this woman happened to be Rachel Ford from the Unmasked Ball—saying: "Oh ho, I can positively sense the strained air which surrounds you, Mr. Apollinov! It is especially very easy for me to understand, especially at this soirée. Oh, all the fortitude must take so much courage. Ahem, would you agree?"
"I agree, Mrs. Ford, everyone will know soon enough at the midnight announcement," replied Apollinov with gravity. "All the guests my wife has invited surely know of the extremely restless and dissipated habits which have governed my life thus far. Rest assured, there can be no breaks, and my 'secret' will be poured forth when the clock strikes the moon."
"Mr. Apollinov, Mrs. Ford," said Corvo with intense feeling. He smiled and gestured to Rachel Ford. "So glad to see you here." He briefly kissed her hand.
"Mr. Attano, Dunwall's knight!" said Rachel Ford readily, as though she had been happily anticipating his arrival. "I was just talking about you with the famed Mr. Apollinov, and the—ha, ha—" she started to titter "—the embarrassing fiasco at the Unmasked Ball! My, to this day I wonder what it was all about."
"Your exquisite record has come to my close attention, Mr. Attano," said Apollinov respectfully, returning the smile. "I am personally well versed in the Unmasked Ball's going ons, the cornerstone of scientific proposition, much of it utterly magnificent."
"So you know it," said Corvo. "Could you guess what led to the finale, Mr. Apollinov, or did Mrs. Ford inform you?"
"Oh, I did, I did!" she replied as her eyes lit up. "Not one sir nor madame could keep shut about the Wandering Stranger."
"Rachel, ma chère, get in here!" came in a male voice at the edge of the hallway's entrance, presumably her husband. "Master Sokolov wishes to discuss your art pieces. You will never believe his comments!"
"Right away, love!" sang Rachel Ford. She quickly bowed off and wandered down the foyer, right into the smoking lounge.
"I can very well imagine the turning point of your speech, Mr. Attano," Apollinov went on impressively, locking in Corvo's attention, almost like he had a special way with words. "I suspect the audience was highly amiable, but all appeared to be labouring under a half-hidden feeling of anxiety as to the result of your deliberate answers with regard to the Wandering Stranger—which result was to be made public the following evening."
"My, uh, my thoughts exactly, Mr. Apollinov," said Corvo, nearly getting lost in the overwhelming flow of his speech.
"Our aristocrats have oft wondered what this year's Unmasked Ball was all about. I was not personally there, but I do know it, oh I know it well. Presume, for instance, a most noble proposition to gather a very many influential and creatively intelligent Dunwallians. The science, the philosophy, the arts and literature—such is the knowledge to overcome the world. Following such a noble—I do like that word—a noble supposition, Mrs. Ford told me of your unusual arrival."
"You obviously heard about it. Everyone has heard about it," replied Corvo almost breathlessly. "Only I have to wonder: why invite me at all if my research did not stand up to scrutiny? I came to a particular conclusion a while back."
"The Wandering Stranger, no?"
"I was thinking that. Never thought it would go further than a pun."
"Oh, not at all, you mustn't underestimate human persistence. You are Dunwall's acclaimed detective, in a word, the best one they have got. Anyone else of comparable status—myself, who busily resides up north, or Lawliet, on the other end of the continent, or... you get my saying... the Wandering Stranger has been connected to Dunwall more than any other city, any other district. The information that the Wandering Stranger resides in Dunwall is common sense by now, however. In the beginning many among our most intelligent, our most trustworthy ladies and gentlemen took to the supposition that the ridiculous notion of a 'Wandering Stranger' would be whisked away in a few months—a bloody little trend, if you will. I imagine it got to the point where everyone started taking it seriously, and the Unmasked Ball was a functional plan to gather the influential crowd with, say, a magnificent detective..." he gestured quite innocently to Corvo. "Ha, ha, decent way to spread the good word to those who need the update."
"I think I came to the same conclusion, Mr. Apollinov."
"My commendable friend, I absolutely implore you to refer to me as simply Fredric. I have been wanting to strike a friendship between us ever since reading into your work as Dunwall's top detective."
"Then by all means, call me Corvo."
"I quite appreciate your familiarity, Corvo," said Apollinov with revealing animation in his eyes. He chuckled in a deep voice, making his joviality rather apparent.
"Of course," remarked Corvo cordially, "it is necessary, perhaps, to even encourage this freedom of behaviour. I myself have read about you, and I got a thing or two to learn, such as where do you stack all that money!"
The two laughed.
"How I have come to take such a fondness for western humour!" Apollinov went on. "Good or bad, sometimes it does good to one's soul to laugh."
"I ought to observe, Fredric, your originality," said Corvo. "That is, your work boggles my mind. You are able to answer questions—that is, you can fashion answers to questions most people would not have even conceptualized yet. Take, for example, your book on the psychology of the 'irredeemable,' as you put it, and notice how you allowed yourself a step back and even criticized your own character in light of the most wrenched minds imaginable. It crossed me as intellectually honest, if nothing else."
"Well, I thank you. You might just enliven us with your commentaries."
"Though, if I must add in something else," Corvo went on, a tad more slowly, suddenly becoming more serious, as it were, and with ill-concealed disconcertedness, "the week before tonight I drew a particular connection between this very soirée and your study of the 'irredeemable' psychology."
"A connection? Hmm... you seem like a good reader of riddles," said Apollinov, who was evidently longing to see whether he could make a guess as to what "connection" Corvo was alluding to.
"I must ask when did you... first of all... are you a psychologist?" poured out of Corvo, quite almost excitedly, too.
"Dear me, is there anything so very curious about my little remarks of psychology?" Apollinov smiled amiably. "I am no psychologist, or rather, not officially. I was talking about something quite peculiar."
"Surely you were talking about the Wandering Stranger."
"That is not entirely out of reach. But, my friend, do you know the greatest and even the most muddleheaded mistake a detective, even a good one, can commit?"
"I have some ideas. What is yours?"
"I will repeat the explanation for my soirée," said Apollinov with a sudden gleam of satisfaction and calculated anticipation in his dark eyes. "Oh, I mean, not a repeat since I hardly told anyone, including you. I will do all of this, and, at the same time, tell you the most muddleheaded mistake a detective can make. It's astonishing, I would say."
"Should I be honoured to hear this from you, this early?" said Corvo, starting to become surprised.
"I think so. You see, Corvo, all the world is witty and clever except myself. I am neither. That is the primary presupposition in which a detective must conduct his business."
"To avoid complacency?"
"To avoid complacency. There is nothing more foolish, nothing more intellectually degrading, than a complacent soul of justice, or, in our niche case, a complacent detective. The presupposition of ignorance is not an original one, but its status of utility is the product of much wisdom. You positively cannot know all, who can know all? A detective is, by his very nature, out of his league, and with such a mindset you will succeed. This requires constant confrontation will self-actualization and constant confrontation with the unknown. This is not an easy task, mind you, to avoid complacency, as it has tempted man for who knows how many eons. And so I adamantly repeat: I am neither witty nor clever. As a bold kind of compensation I am allowed to tell the truth, for it is a well-known fact that only ignorant people can tell the truth. On top of this, I am a spiteful man, magnanimous and yet dreadfully spiteful, by mere characteristic of not being clever. Should I be injured or offended I bear it quite patiently until the man offending me meets with some misfortune or other. That is, I know how to keep my place in the face of injustice, and that is the first truth I reveal to you."
Corvo listened with an open mind, but that was mostly askance and surface-level. He agreed that one should check himself and not devolve into complacency, but everything after that he found to be utter nonsense. In what reality can only the ignorant tell the truth? Added to that, how can one be both magnanimous and spiteful, and say so without the slightest wince of self-actualization, as Apollinov just said? And, if I may dare to insert my own opinion, I have to completely agree with Corvo here. This Fredric Apollinov certainly was a strange character with many objectionable opinions.
But Corvo, in spite of his mild perplexity, would rather not have criticized the world's top detective so readily. He kept on listening.
"The second truth is the underlying focus of me and my wife's soirée," continued Apollinov stoutly, even lacking all traces of uncertainty. "You said something correctly: there is indeed a connection between my psychological analyses and the Wandering Stranger. But I am (once more) not a psychologist, least of all a sociologist, not even an average one."
"Psychology is tricky subject matter," said Corvo with a fixed stare. "Never mind the drivel that is modern sociology, anyway; psychology itself functions at full steam and never a knot less."
"At full steam, you say?" Apollinov's countenance grew brighter, highlighted with some great, marked interest. "Hmm... I suppose you can... to understand it all!" He widened his rigid smile. "Ha, ha—psychology moves at full steam! What else may motive the most complex motivations of the self-conscious and individual soul? You can never explain it, you can commit to the most nonsensical and irrational modes of being, but every belief is internally logical, every culture has its own system of reason which survives scrutiny under its own context, but only under its own context."
"I definitely agree with that," said Corvo suddenly, all too glad to have said it. He was about to throw in another remark, but realized it would not add to the conversation, and, moreover, realized the borderline haughty composure he displayed when he agreed. He instinctively cleared his throat.
"Of course, yes, of course," maintained Apollinov with perfect composure. But he looked to be hurrying along, as though wishing to end an unpleasant digression. "But anyway, anyway, the second truth now, and one—take my word for it, I recommend it—which requires a tad more than just polite attention. You see, roughly three years ago I said to myself, I said: 'These frantic collapses of royal overseers and lord regents, and the accumulating effaces of illegal organizations, and the increased numbers of criminals forming steeper and steeper hills in the graveyards... why, is it a coincidence? Is it a coincidence that all these statistics would raise in similar proportions, side-by-side, simultaneously? No,' I said, 'not a coincidence, but a grand mystery soaking in the energy of the legal system. What makes it all the more strange,' I said, 'is that this all fired off precisely six months subsequent to the empress's assassination.' You guessed it, my friend: the Wandering Stranger. I have been on his track even before his little nickname caught wind. Today—I mean, tonight is the night. It has all come down to this. This has all been thanks to my psychological analysis of the Wandering Stranger, which I was hoping to share it with you now." He took a brief glance at his pocket watch. "Twenty minutes until my speech! We have time, we have time."
"That is all quite remarkable of you, Fredric," said Corvo admirably and with expressive honour. "And you honestly mean to share early access of your speech with me?"
"If a man must store away his truth to a particular juncture, and boxes himself in such circumstances where he cannot share this truth of his at any given point, then it instantly loses its status for credibility. To know an idea is true you must simply slip in the question: 'What is there to hide?' I speak the truth, Corvo, my friend, and I mean only to speak the truth in the most precise manner I am humanly capable of."
"In that case, I would very much like to hear this 'second truth' of yours."
In the back of his mind Corvo's thoughts were starting to stumble on themselves. There was no more denying it: Apollinov was after the Wandering Stranger. He was dead-set on the Wandering Stranger. The whole of those six months in Dunwall must have been a concentrated effort, to learn everything he could. Everyone worth their heft knew the overwhelming probability that the Wandering Stranger lived in Dunwall. Opposing that established theory could only draw suspicion.
Worst of all, Apollinov was absolutely going to succeed if Corvo just let himself stand around. Corvo wanted nothing more than to exhaust Apollinov's work and have him leave, but after half a year of dedication that was unlikely, or at least not happening any time soon.
And then, right before Apollinov began speaking, for a very short amount of time, a millisecond even, a haunting thought half-consciously ran by Corvo: did Apollinov suspect him of being the Wandering Stranger? No, stupid question, every detective, general, and officer suspected every other detective, general, and officer, it was a cycle. Did Apollinov know he was the Wandering Stranger, without a shadow of doubt? May I remind the reader that two years ago Princess Celestia also knew Corvo was conspiring against them, well before it was revealed to Princess Luna.
It felt as if the chains of the past were tightening round Corvo. But in the present there was nothing he could do.
"I cannot help dwelling on this unexpected trait in the Wandering Stranger's character," said Apollinov, looking somehow mysteriously at Corvo, as though he were trying to make him aware of some secondary motive. "He evinces an irresistible desire for justice, for the greater good, a respect for the country and a recognition of the line which divides good and evil. That, as you must know, is the argument proposed by his supporters; but they are not wrong, per se. Facts are facts: the Wandering Stranger has done a great deal of good—no, not 'good'—a great deal of convenience for our world; crime has never been weaker; the very idea borders on the concept of peace, the dawn of it, at least. It is an unbelievably powerful argument, a rational argument, it is no wonder those in favour of the Wandering Stranger tend to win the vast sum of debates. But the blood shed by the Wandering Stranger is that of vengeance. Many of our good people were up in anger following the assassination of the empress, at the gates of the government in violent protest, in an attempt to initiate mob rule. It never went well until six months later when the sheer corruption of the high overseers was made public." (I should cut in to mention that Corvo was responsible for that event of transparency which practically brought down the corrupt officials) "Right after that, not even a week later, the first sightings of the Wandering Stranger became a reality. So, I repeat: vengeance is the primary mode of being which drives the Wandering Stranger, right here in Dunwall. And because this link of events cries out for vengeance, I suppose the Wandering Stranger was forced to ask himself what he was and what could he do in the ruin of his soul.
"The Wandering Stranger felt this, knew that all 'legal' proceedings were barred to him by his crimes and that he was a criminal under investigation, and not a man with life before him. Did this thought crush him, initially crush him? No, it did not crush him, because if it did crush him he would have surrendered himself almost immediately at the beginning. And so he flew to his plan of vengeance: first: remove any and all evil-doers from the painting; second: do not get caught; third: kill anyone, even the overtly innocent, if it meant remaining anonymous. Here in the countless murders of the Wandering Stranger we see in excess a love of effect, an almost romantic despair to set things right. In my opinion: a wild recklessness, but because we are even more reckless than him, he appears perfectly balanced, functioning in order, like a mastermind who can predict all possible outcomes. Yes, but there is something else, Corvo, something that cries out in the soul, throbs incessantly in the mind, and poisons the heart unto death—that something is conscience, Corvo, its judgment, its terrible torments!"
I could keep silent and not question him, for only the Wandering Stranger would object, thought Corvo, running the hypothetical dialogue in his head. But that could work against me. If I were not the Wandering Stranger then it would only be natural to play devil's advocate, as that is the only way to narrow down our theories and catch "him." Does he want me to—
"Corvo," Apollinov said directly to him, "you look like you have your concerns."
"I do have my concerns," said Corvo readily. "You suggest that conscience must torment the Wandering Stranger, but given his prolonged work he seems all too happy to be cutting criminals down. If conscience indeed does poison the heart, then I think the Wandering Stranger would accept his position. I do not think anything of debatability cries out in him."
"That is excellently observed, but—it does now!" said Apollinov adamantly, like rapture were about to burst from him. "What you say is true, or rather, it used to be true. We need only look at statistics, that is all, numbers are not affected by ideology. The Wandering Stranger has been hard at work to keep his record consistent: at bare minimum one criminal dead per week, almost always more, but one per week for an assured capacity, and many extending across the country. Recently, however, while the numbers have dwindled, the minimum remains at one every single week. The average has dropped remarkably, so why not this silly standard? An analogy I fashioned this morning, an underdeveloped one, but still: it is like you start sinking, and you desperately try to keep your face above water, just the part of your face which contains your mouth and nostrils; you absolutely do not care about the rest of your body, just that certain section of your face. The Wandering Stranger is killing less and less, but to be sure that nothing tipped out of place, he relied solely on his standard of one every week, which suggests that he does not wish to leave off a clue of one of two things: simple procrastination or the catching up of his conscience. The former is unlikely—possible and still up in the air, but unlikely. I compared the data available to me, and what have we got?—this little deviation began to form a trend six months and four weeks ago, so practically seven months ago. That, Corvo, is merely part one of the second truth, a prequel to the second truth. The rest is as such:
"What need had the Wandering Stranger of precaution if he himself is about to give up? Two or three times he almost missed the standard (based on the statistics we have of him). Does he know what drives a murderer now? If he did not acknowledge himself as a murderer, because 'murderer' carries a negative connotation, then there would be no backdrop of murderers to compare himself to, and by that logic he could not possibly know how murderers think. If, by our luck, he came to the conclusion that he is a murderer, lest he be totally insane, the Wandering Stranger would refuse within himself the very name; and yet, while impossible to fully speak out, he would need to end his career just to save himself from his conscience, that is to say, the admission of being a murderer. In moments of self-degradation men will bow their heads to any and all insults, any and all save for the source of that self-degradation. If we follow along this presupposition, then it should stand to no surprise that guilt alone—glorious guilt!—would hook itself into the Wandering Stranger's soul and drag him into the abyss, notwithstanding the struggle on the way down, which would be the one-per-week standard. But you know the facts, Corvo, you are intelligent enough to make the right illations. If and when the Wandering Stranger fails to triumph over himself, a process which started seven months ago, then his soul will pass into a new phase, perhaps the most terrible phase through which his soul has passed or will pass.
"It can be said with certainty that the criminal heart bring their own vengeance more completely than any earthly justice. What is more, justice and punishment in this world of worlds positively alleviate the punishment of nature and are, indeed, essential to the soul of the criminal at such moments, as its salvation from despair. In consequence, I have a hard time imagining, even conceptualizing, the moral suffering of the Wandering Stranger when it struck him the impossibilities of bringing peace to us while, at the same time, shedding blood. That, in and of itself, blasted his axiomatic presuppositions into oblivion, and there is no greater grief than the realization that what you dedicated your life to for so many years is false, and not just false, but abhorrently false. It is the exercise of cognitive dissonance. I am sure you are familiar with the terminology? Yes? Of course. When everything is over for you, nothing is possible."
"I see. So the Wandering Stranger cannot come to terms with his faults, and so he finds himself in a battle between the new ideal and his conservative work."
"Not just that. You see, Corvo, my friend, up until now I have illustrated a brief overview of the Wandering Stranger's psychological state, but now, more importantly, we must put practice to theory. If my assertions are correct, then we can accurately predict who he is."
"Really? Predict who he is? Just based on vague psychological diagnoses?" said Corvo in reproaching, albeit sincere, tones.
"I am glad to see a contrarian!" laughed Apollinov. "Many here take my word for gospel. That is wrong. Remember—complacency is a detective's downfall."
"Yes—but—anyway, I implore you to continue. What else can you say about the Wandering Stranger, and what can you predict?"
"Yes, yes, I will wrap up my second truth, and that shall lead to the conclusion:
By the way, I will note in parenthesis that this "conclusion" was really an in-progress one, far less developed than Apollinov led on to believe. But a solid theory, like any other, starts from the assumption that it is wrong. Apollinov's conclusion cannot be presented in its entirety, largely due to the fact that he did not share it, not even to his wife, whom he trusted more than anyone else in the world.
"It is difficult to say if the Wandering Stranger is scared of being arrested. I mean, what could possibly await him? Execution? Reconciliation? Flogged on a scaffold, by an executioner, with everyone watching? Ha, ha, my bad, that last one was just a little facetious remark, nothing personal. But in reality—nothing less than execution would be his punishment. Let us say that the Wandering Stranger is caught, he is pinned by a commissioner and a prosecutor. What would influence him in that moment? First, the influence of shock, of the prospect of being exposed for his crimes swinging back in his face like a pendulum. Secondly, the hope in the background that the fatal end might still be far off, that not until next morning, at least, they would come and take him. So he would have a few hours and that is much, very much! In a few hours one can think of many things. I imagine that he would feel something like what criminals feel when they are being taken to the scaffold, or even the electric chair. They have another long, long street to pass down and at walking pace, past thousands of people. Then there will be a turning into another street and only at the end of that street the dread place of execution! I fancy that at the beginning of the journey the condemned man, sitting on his shameful cart, must feel that he has infinite life still before him. The houses recede, the cart moves on—ah, that is nothing, it is still far to the turning into the second street and he still looks boldly to the right and to the left at those thousands of callously curious people with their eyes fixed on him, and he still fancies that he is just such a man as they. But now the turning comes to the next street. But that is nothing, nothing, there is still a whole street before him, and however many houses have been passed, he will still think there are many yet to come.
"I suspect the Wandering Stranger's soul is full of confusion and hatred, but I have faith in his strength of character. I have faith that he would not fall so easily and sweep everything behind him just for the sake of a silly existential crisis. I have faith that he would manage, which is why, on the basis of these findings, I have come to Dunwall. And then I publicly announce a soirée, and I make sure that every single soul within a one hundred kilometer radius knows of my name, namely, of my reputation, and that everyone should connect my reputation with the case of the Wandering Stranger. In light of this, I believe the Wandering Stranger would manage to come here, just to see what I have to say, even if it were out of spite."
"You think the Wandering Stranger is here?" cut in Corvo all of a sudden, not with surprise, but on the contrary, with ready reserve and curiosity. His pale lips contorted into a smile.
"I very well know for an irrevocable fact that the Wandering Stranger is here," replied Apollinov, returning an even stronger smile. "There are moments so terrible that even the instinct of self-preservation will abandon you. The criminal can only be made to speak by the sudden and apparently incidental communication of some new fact, of some circumstance of great importance in the case, of which he had no previous idea and could not have foreseen. The Wandering Stranger, perhaps on some subconscious level, came here exactly because of the unforeseeable, as if to tell himself: 'Now, now is the chance where I can atone for what I have done.' Alternatively, he is entirely conscious of this decision, and if that is the case, all the better for it."
There was a significant pause between the two men, and at last Apollinov added: "All that is left is the process of elimination. No women, of course—the Wandering Stranger is male—women are not capable of what he does. Someone who possesses extraordinary combative abilities—we know the piles of corpses left in his path, many of which held swords and pistols at first sighting, and forensic science almost always told us that fights broke out. Highly intelligent, a quick thinker, someone who is no longer an idealist, access to government records, for how else could he know who is truly guilty and who is being framed?—all in all, someone who is familiar with everyone in this soirée."
That excludes me then, thought Corvo, but gravely, and without much satisfaction, as though he came to believe that Apollinov threw in that final criteria as a trap.
"Would you look at the time!" exclaimed Apollinov, who had just now glanced at his watch. "Two minutes left. I better start clanging a fork on a glass. Look, most guests are already here, the noise is picking up. Any last inquires you wish to pose?"
"Just one, and I will be blunt for the sake of brevity: did you use to be an idealist?"
"Drawing parallels, my friend?" said Apollinov in an access of good-natured pride. "Ha, ha—but well observed. Yes, I used to be an idealist, a long time ago, in my youth. What gave it away?" His eyes suddenly gleamed.
"Nothing in particular," said Corvo, shrugging. "Just a blind inquiry. Yes or no, my curiosity would have been satisfied either way."
"The good side of apathy," remarked Apollinov. "Well now, everyone is here, I best get prepared, it will take only a minute, probably less. We should continue our conversation some other time, Corvo."
"Happy to, Fredric."
* * *
And so ended all that Corvo had intended to learn from Fredric Apollinov that night. I hasten to emphasize the fact that I consider myself far from capable of reporting all that took place at the soirée in full detail. Doing so with full explanation would fill an entire book, even a large one at that. And so, to stand on the grounds of my inadequacy as a narrator, I have confined myself to recount only what struck me. I may have selected as of most interest what was of secondary importance, and may have omitted the most prominent and essential details. But I see I shall do better not to apologize. I have done my best and hopefully the reader will understand that I have done all I can.
But just in case, I will quickly recount everything that took place following Corvo's initial conversation with Apollinov.
Apollinov was being fully transparent when he told Corvo he was going to give him an early access of his speech. Almost everything you have just read Apollinov tell Corvo was repeated in the much anticipated announcement. It was, however, done with more flair, and a few extra details were inserted in for the sake of effect, to truly present his psychological analysis of the Wandering Stranger as picturesque. The flow and word choice were significantly different at certain points, and he inserted an anecdote about his family heritage and what that meant for the dignity of detective work, but all in all the gist remained intact.
When Apollinov concluded his speech—his oath to capture the Wandering Stranger, his summarization of the nuances, et cetera, et cetera—the enthusiasm of the audience burst like a thunderous storm. Practically everyone, even those who were in favour of the Wandering Stranger's conduct, applauded, either by the overwhelming stimulation of Apollinov's rare sense of logic and confidence, or public pressure in the face of a true genius, where any objections would be met with hisses. In fact, so great was the consistency of Apollinov's argument that it was out of the question to play devil's advocate. Apollinov himself was genuinely touched.
There then followed, as it were, a sort of after-party in which everyone stayed for as long as propriety deemed appropriate. Corvo struck up several conversations with the other guests, many of whom he had met before. I will note one last little trifle before moving on.
Halfway through the after-party Apollinov completely disappeared. In the first half he was surrounded by our ladies and gentlemen every second, which led to some exclamation of indignation—and in a rather comedic fashion, too. But off of that he spoke less and less, changed from room to room, and eventually no one could find him. At the end of the second half, where many guests wondered where the host could have taken off to, the clock struck twelve-thirty, and the wife came to deliver the final goodbyes. It was strange to think on it: many of the more restless guests assumed Apollinov would never allow the Wandering Stranger to leave his mansion—it was unimaginable to do so after so adamantly declaring his mysterious presence—but then everyone did leave, and no one else continued to question it.
The talk of capturing the Wandering Stranger carried over the next day, not as energetically, but enough to leave its impression. I, however, am starting to get ahead of myself. Let's resume the story approximately forty-five minutes after Corvo bid his final farewell and took off in his own direction from the soirée.
* * *
The Hound Pits Pub. Corvo's favorite drinking establishment and one where he met frequently with friends. On any normal day it would have closed by midnight, but Corvo was respected enough and had enough history with the place to be allowed access. He sat at the table alone, sipping a mug of whiskey the bartender just filled up for him.
"I suppose you attended Mr. Apollinov's get-together event?" inquired the bartender, who was digging a cloth into a dirty canister.
"I did. It just came to a close," said Corvo after taking a pause for another sip.
"Feels like it took place at the end of the world," said the bartender, "you can hear his mansion all the way up at the north district, really something to think about."
"How could you know about it?"
"Word of mouth spreads like wildfire, Mr. Attano."
"So it does." Corvo drained his mug. "Ech, the whiskey is flat. Got any coffee?"
"I best not offer you any; coffee's gone cold." The bartender looked at Corvo thoroughly. "And who drinks coffee right after whiskey? Seems like harsh taste."
"Very harsh taste," Corvo practically muttered, making his way to the stand to place his empty mug. His head was aching, the back of his eyes would sting every few minutes. "May I have a wet towel?"
The bartender went into the corner, took a towel, soaked it in the sink, squeezed it tight, and handed the wet towel over to Corvo, who thanked the bartender and placed it on his head.
"Are you currently not working, Mr. Attano?" asked the bartender suddenly.
"I actually am working," replied Corvo, his eyes lowered. "Hmm, I'm up a stump, that is all."
"Well, I know very little about your cases, but you should pull through. I can say that much."
Corvo sighed, remaining completely still in his bent position. He could not recall the last time he felt this unmotivated to start a conversation; rather, he kept contemplating on some other idea, something distant and even grand, as though he had had an unpleasant premonition.
"I ought to be closing up soon," said the bartender with decision. He had finished clearing out the stand, and lit a candle; then, he wandered over to a hook in the wall which hung a large pair of bronze keys.
"Mind if I take the towel with me?" asked Corvo.
"Not at all, Mr. Attano," said the bartender with a friendly gesture. He started climbing the stairway to the second floor. "I will be back in two minutes to lock the door. Goodnight."
Corvo nodded and headed out. The silver moon had just begun to wane. Most houses were like black masses, made visible only by their outlines against the bluish night sky. For some time Corvo did not seem to comprehend the silence about him; that is, he comprehended it and saw everything, but it was like he expected something unordinary to strike up suddenly.
Once he was halfway over a bridge he stopped and took a look round. He darted his eyes to his hands, stared vaguely at them, blinking as if coming to his senses. He shot his head forward and drew a breath, realizing that he had left the wet towel at the Hound Pits.
"Ah, damn it," he said to himself, turned round, and continued walking. But given the cold weather, perhaps that was for the best.
Two things were on his mind. First: Apollinov's dedication to expose him as the Wandering Stranger, and what that meant for his work heading into the future; second: the fact that the Grand Galloping Gala was scheduled for the twenty-first of December, all of two days from now.
Large flocks of snow began falling down, indistinctly and sparingly at first, but in five minutes the pace picked up. Eventually the ground everywhere was cold with frost and snow, and a keen dry wind was lifting and blowing it along the dreary streets of Dunwall. Fortunately things were surprisingly dry, especially in this time of year.
Corvo didn't want to alarm himself. Apollinov had no evidence to hold against him, nothing could prove he held the identity of the Wandering Stranger.
But is that what really bothers me? thought Corvo. Like hell Fredric knows what to determine based on his personal opinions of psychology. But no, not that, I have no need to worry about that. I just have to endure it for two days, just two days!
But he suddenly came to a halt. He stood still in alarm—in an almost superstitious alarm, for a moment; then all secondary thoughts cleared away from him; he was conscious of nothing but his breathing, his covert trembling; his breath came and went; but the moment passed.
He leaned against the wall of a nearby house and calmed himself. He stood there for a minute. Then he immediately felt better and continued walking with some practically renewed energy. Thank goodness it was not another panic attack. Perhaps they really were at the beginning of their end.
But nevertheless, Corvo's mental perturbation increased every moment. He wandered down a street which passed by an abandoned park, looking absently round him, and paused in astonishment when he suddenly found himself in an empty space with rows of chairs round it. The look of the place struck him as dreadful now: so he turned round and went by the path which he had followed, until he reached a green bench which looked strangely desolate. He sat down on it and suddenly burst into a loud fit of laughter, immediately followed by a feeling of irritation. His disturbance of mind continued; he felt that he must go away somewhere, anywhere. Only two days till the Gala; that would have to do.
The snowfall stopped all of a sudden. The air felt colder now than before, even somehow darker where one could hardly make out the snow-laden trees more than a few meters away.
Above his head some little bird sang out; he began to peer about for it among the leaves. Suddenly the bird darted out of the tree and away, and Corvo instantly thought of the "fit of passion" Sombra told him. But he could not afford to delude himself; he was the one who had first said those three inconsequential words, well before Sombra could have known about it. Did he say it somewhere else, sometime else? Or, perhaps, a coincidence of universal implausibility took place?
But in light of "passion," and the journey he and Serath undertook with the ponies, he believed everyone knew their place. At times like these, to be aimless was to admit defeat. An old, forgotten memory awoke in his brain, and suddenly burst into clearness and light: it was a recollection of when Serath spoke to Corvo about the "infinite capacity for evil we all hold in our hearts," and then Serath had added that ordinary men are the most susceptible to evil, specifically and with emphasis, ordinary men of all.
"If only it were so simple," is what Serath told him. "If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?"
But Corvo had not long to meditate.
A little boy, about eight or nine years old, began approaching him from his peripherals. Corvo turned to look at this boy, and the latter froze in place, as if guilty to have been caught.
This boy was looking at him attentively. He was pale, his face thin-looking, his black eyes seemed to gleam solemnly; he wore a worn-out leather coat, trousers he looked to have outgrown, and black, rubber boots, the sort of attire you'd see on a peasant schoolboy. He trembled very much.
Corvo briefly scanned the area to see if there was anyone else nearby, perhaps this boy's parents or older siblings. But they were alone.
"Hello there," said Corvo, rising from his bench. He started walking towards the boy, but upon the first step forward the boy jumped back, as if in a start, but said nothing. All the colour seemed to have drained from his face.
"Whatever is the matter?" said Corvo in confusion, ceasing his gait. "No need to feel scared. Look, see, I am from these parts, I live here. Are you lost, or what?"
The boy shook his head, but with no evident defiance. He suddenly twitched forward, changing his whole posture, as if about to run at Corvo, but stopped and kept looking darkly at him.
"Do you need anything?" asked Corvo, looking inquiringly at the boy.
"I... uh-m... Cor-vo?" said the boy in a meek little voice, and again there was a vindictive light in his eyes.
"I am. My full name in Corvo Attano. What do your friends call you?"
But something extremely unexpected and exclamatory occurred, something totally uncalled for.
"Idiot detective, dumb and defective!" cried the boy in an angry, childish voice.
Corvo cocked his head, a change coming over his face. "What?"
"Defective detective, idiot-head detective!" the boy sputtered out once more; and he threw himself into a defensive attitude, feeling sure that Corvo would get angry and attack.
There was a long pause. At last Corvo spoke out: "You must be from the lower district. Where are your parents?"
The boy waited in silent defiance, bringing up his tiny fists as though out of premeditated spitefulness, shuddering all over from the cold. Unexpectedly, his eyes were on the verge of tears.
"You should not be here," sighed Corvo, lowering his shoulders. "You will freeze very soon, do you know that? Also, children really ought not to roam the streets at this hour."
The boy kept staring, feeling weighed down by his weak legs. His thin face was contorted with a sort of compulsion, like he were experiencing the early symptoms of a seizure.
"I really do not need to help you, but I very well could," said Corvo sternly, crossing his arms. "What is your name? Can I take you some place warm at least?"
But suddenly, completely out of the blue, seeing that Corvo did not intend to respond violently to the petty insults, instead of answering the boy broke into a loud tearful wail, his tears finally pouring out. He wept pitifully into the empty space of the night sky, not doing anything else, as if horribly pressured into something he despised. In that moment the darkness from his eyes had vanished.
Corvo raised his eyebrows in surprised, not sure of what to say at first. He quickly wandered over to the boy. But when he got close enough for all intents and purposes, the boy, his cheeks still wet from the weeping, flew into a fit of unknown rage. He flew at Corvo, and before Corvo had time to react, the spiteful child had seized his hand with both of his and bit down on his thumb.
But the boy could only fix his teeth in the finger for about a second. Corvo cried in pain and pulled back with all his might.
"You little rat!" he cried with flashing eyes, and delivered a kick to the boy's side, who instantly jolted and sunk down with a horrific groan. "I suppose you have never been whipped before, huh?" said Corvo angrily again, clasping his reddened thumb with his good hand.
The boy began screaming uncontrollably, blinded by rage; he sprang up and charged at Corvo. But Corvo closed the distance quickly, pushed him powerfully with a palm, wrapping his arm round the boy's neck and lifting him up. The boy was trashing, kicking, biting—struggling with all his tiny strength to break free from the grip.
Corvo forced the child chest-down onto the ground, and locked his arms behind his own back, immobilizing him.
"What is going on through that head of yours? Stop," said Corvo more calmly now that he had the upper-hand.
"Demon! Demon! Demon!" the boy was choking out. He had given up his vain efforts to break free, and was now weeping profusely.
"What are you saying?"
"Corvo the Demon! Corvo the Demon!" the boy still screamed in a cracking voice, and shut his eyes.
"What have I done to you? Shut it!" said Corvo imperiously, raising the boy to the level of his waist and began dragging how out of the park, still with his arms locked.
He managed to reach a nearby police station in only a handful of minutes, but the journey felt like it took an hour. The rage-filled child resisted the whole way through, hurling stupid insults at Corvo, kicking his legs, hurling himself every which way—it was like he wanted to kill Corvo, without understanding why in the first place, without cohesion.
When they got to the station an officer, middle-aged, who had likely been working in that particular station for a long time, rushed in to see what the commotion was all about.
"Good heavens! Cor-vo A-tta-no?" said the officer in alarm, involuntarily setting his sight on the child.
"Get the restraints," said Corvo. "This one tried to bite my finger off."
The officer was even more alarmed, looking at the boy in confusion. "What is the matter?" he asked.
"Later!" said Corvo. "He got too violent, keeps yelling and the like."
The officer stammered, growing more and more surprised, but given the circumstances he hastily strode to his desk, seized a pair of ovular locks attached to sets of chains, and bound the boy's hands and feet down (after the boy kicked him in the stomach). They tossed him into another room and locked the door. The boy was still screaming.
"What is the meaning of this?" asked the officer in the strangest perplexity, his voice huffing slightly. "Why is it that the child was screeching at you?"
"No idea," replied Corvo. He sank into a chair and exhaled wearily. "The little rat attacked me for no discernible reason. I met him at the park two blocks down the street from here—" And he pointed in the general direction they came from.
"The boy attacked you? Hmm. We never got that before in this area." The officer suddenly became silent, pondering, stroking his beard out of habit, as though searching for something but unable to come to a decision.
"Find out who he is, find out who his parents are, get him back to where he belongs," said Corvo abruptly. "Can you inform me of all that tomorrow morning?"
"I will do what I can, Mr. Attano. Come by tomorrow morning if you can."
"Thank you. I just need to figure something out."
"Perhaps the boy is an orphan."
"Perhaps."
"But you said he attacked you, eh? That is unacceptable."
"Listen, I know nothing about this, maybe this boy became lost and did not react well to a foreign environment, only he is restrained now. He repeatedly called me a demon."
"A demon, Mr. Attano?"
"At the end of May I began looking into a case involving peasants going missing from the lower district, particularly women and children. Just tell me what you can tomorrow morning. I need to go." Corvo rose from his seat, wincing slightly at the pain in his legs from all the kicking; he made his way to the entrance.
"Anything else?" put in the officer.
"No. Thank you very much for your help. Goodnight."
"Oof, very strange, but fine as it stands. Goodnight, Mr. Attano."
Corvo took off once more, this time speed-walking down the snowy streets. He was determined to solve this mystery, but first he felt it absolutely necessary to reach his house, warm up, and read over the relevant documents.
* * *
"A demon, a demon!" he repeated in unquenchable spite, striding broadly over slush and frozen puddles without looking where he stepped. True, at moments we wanted to laugh, loudly, furiously; but for some reason he controlled himself and restrained his laughter. He came to his senses only upon entering his home (and all but slamming his door shut). He hung his coat, stored away his weapons, and was quick to light a small fire.
He went over to his desk and put any unnecessary items in the drawer, taking half a minute to sort out the letters he read and did not yet read, setting about a dozen different papers on top one another in front of him. He spread them out a bit and scanned them readily.
It is a pity the story must move on more quickly and there is no time for descriptions; but it is impossible to do without observations entirely. Just like the soirée, I will not and, for want of skill, cannot recount every single thing Corvo did that late night. Even if I could you would not be very interested—it mostly comprised sitting round for a handful of hours, pondering heavily, not taking his eyes off the hearth, and reviewing the documents many times over. But because the reader must also be informed of these events should they wish to make any sense of the following narrative, they should know his most fundamental thoughts at the moment.
Corvo was melancholy and preoccupied. He had been studying the numerous "sightings" of the Wandering Stranger, that is, the dozens, perhaps over a hundred, peasant corpses that were discovered in the lower districts in the past seven months—and to no coincidence, all of which were tied to the Wandering Stranger. Someone was out there to either expose him or frame him—or someone was playing a very black joke.
Regardless of the specifics, he didn't give a damn about the motive, only the outcome and what that meant for him. He considered this being Apollinov's doing. A silly hypothesis, but he needed somewhere to start.
Would Fredric kill so many people just to get to me? thought Corvo. This all fired off in May, when I came back to Dunwall. Hell of an overlap. Hmm... did Fredric hire someone? I doubt that. How would he even manage something so intricate without getting caught in a net himself? No, it is not like him; he only arrived in June.
Corvo looked back to his notes. In an ironic sort of way, he was glad to have had that peasant boy attack him.
That means I'm suspected by the peasants. Why else, and how? But someone had to have told them it was me—rather, someone lied telling it was me. There is no way peasants lacking in formal education can fashion the idea that Corvo Attano, of all people, and a detective no less, is the Wandering Stranger. That tells me whoever is pulling the strings either knows I am the Wandering Stranger, strongly suspects me, or wants me to be him. One way or the other, there is a connection.
These killings had certain similarities among them. Namely, they all took place right before the dawn, an hour or two before folk were expected to wake up. Next, they almost all involved the swiping away of a woman or child, right off to the edges of their towns, and the bodies would be discovered the next day. Even when they became paranoid and stayed up all night, took shifts, begged for reinforcement from people like Corvo, many would still be whisked away and be discovered dead.
That boy probably lost his mother. Now it makes sense. But 'demon' was not his own word, someone had to have put it in his head.
But suddenly an exclamation of overwhelming complexity struck in his mind.
Is the perpetrator aware that I am looking for him? Up until now I have kept this investigation a secret. No one could know. Unless... I was being watched? Very unlikely. Too unlikely. Impossible; I would have noticed.
At last he heaved a sigh, resting his arms behind his head to lean back.
I wonder if Arbmos will die soon. He is seriously not looking good. And... "Ah, Corvo, focus!"
Corvo shot up. He suddenly got an idea, and was quick to scramble for a particular report. Finding it at last among the rest of the documents and letters he scanned it over twice and put it back down.
This one was written by a low-ranking official. Says here they found a wench's corpse on the side of her cabin, half her head scattered into an artistic mush. Good thing I visited the morgue this August, checked her body myself. The forensic anthropologist I hired, Van der Waals, confirmed residue of C-S fifty five... eh... caesium in the remains of her tissue. Chemical element caesium, isotope one-three-three. Caesium reacts violently with water, creates an explosion the size of an impact grenade. Awfully fatal.
For some reason Corvo turned in his chair to watch the low-burning hearth, conflicted over this reemerged information.
The head-busted woman incident is a unique case. Takes a real degenerate to spin out creative ways to kill his victims. But to go through so much trouble? You would need to travel the extra mile to steal a sample of caesium, shape it into a weapon, and transfer it down the city without the slightest mistake, or it could react with the moisture in the air. Who burns one's candle at both ends like that? More importantly, the only way to accomplish this is by obtaining access to the chemistry department. I need answers now, at least before Apollinov gets any further than he is right now.
Corvo seriously did not intend to sleep for the entire night, but exhaustion overcame his senses; he sat down for a moment on his couch to contemplate, instantly closed his eyes, then unconsciously stretched out on the couch and fell at once into a dead sleep.
* * *
It was dreadfully late when Corvo awoke. It was somewhere round eleven o'clock, and the morning sun was shining brightly on his face through the windows. He jumped up and saw at once that a few of the papers he had stacked up on his desk were sprawled out on the floor. He stared at this for a moment, and exhaled a sigh so heavy he felt his bones rattle. Corvo began rubbing his temples while he sluggishly put the papers back on his desk.
Never let yourself go at one in the morning, he thought sardonically, sinking back into the couch once he was finished. He looked to his right and saw the Outsider at the doorway. Corvo blinked twice, cast a glance at the charcoal-filled hearth, and looked back to his right.
The Outsider was silently and slyly watching him, with insulting composure, and even a sort of contemptuous condescension, so Corvo fancied, but one behind infinite tranquility and resoluteness.
"Well, do you know what you want to do now?" asked the Outsider.
"Yes," said Corvo, calmly and confidently. He rose up and went over to grab his coat.
The Outsider tilted his head in dubiety. "Truly?" he said. "Do tell."
"The families being cut down—nothing but charades to get to me. Whoever is doing this must know me somehow, knows I am the Wandering Stranger, likely upholds many connections and, by extension, access to many places. I need to know something about the chemistry department—something or other about anything. I don't know, really, I just need to hurry."
"Is someone setting you up as a scapegoat?"
"No."
"No?"
"I am leaving."
"I—ahh, fine then. I will remain watching."
"Of course you will." And Corvo took off in an almost rude form of haste.
The snow had stopped entirely, but it was cold, damp, and windy. Low, dull, broken clouds raced quickly across the grey sky; the trees rustled densely and rollingly at their tops, and creaked on their roots. The morning was very melancholy.
First of all, Corvo raced to the officer from yesterday, to check up on any progress or news worth telling. When he arrived the officer was present; a few others came and went, but for the majority of the time the officer was alone in the station.
"Anything?" asked Corvo.
"Taken away, Mr. Attano."
"Taken away?"
"You ask about the wicked child from last night?"
"Yes, of course."
"A gentleman came by early this morning asking about, claiming to be the boy's father."
"Really now?"
"He presented to me family documents, I performed a quick check and, sure enough, they were legitimate."
"But the boy attacked me. How could he have been let go so easily?"
"Apparently he was a schoolboy, recently expelled from his institution due to violent fits caused by hallucinations—doctor's report. The boy was mentally unwell, and he was scheduled to be treated. The whole incident involving you turned out to be an accident. The boy has a history of imagining strange things, conversing with himself, and running away from his home."
"So he was taken away to a hospital?"
"Psychiatric ward, Mr. Attano. As far as I am aware, the father was in his right to take his child away."
"Hmm. Yes, I have not a doubt of that. And one more thing: this father, could you describe him for me?"
"Oh, well, in a way. Tanned skin, thin-lipped, small and protruding eyes; quite the ugly complexion; mostly silver hair, about a finger shorter than you; bony hands, a hooked nose, wore a late eighteenth century frock coat, quite out of fashion if you want my opinion."
Seems very arbitrary, nothing out of place. "That is enough. Farewell, officer."
"If you say so. A good day to you, Mr. Attano."
Corvo felt like he was running short on time. Actually, Corvo was convinced he had run out of time entirely. When you have your back against the wall, he went on thinking, you just have to muddle through. Ah, devil take it!
And so Corvo, after having learned the essentials, decidedly changed his thinking and went straight to Arbmos. To add briefly, the man was stuck in his dreary home, being cared for by four nurses, two pairs each trading places once a day, that is, they would switch once every twelve hours, applying treatment, sorting out his belongings, and whatnot. This is because he absolutely and utterly refused to be transported to a hospital, even when heavily recommended, so much so that they were forced to find the alternative.
Corvo ran into a notable doctor—an assistant of Serath's—on the way there, struck up a quick conversation, and was informed that Arbmos' sickness was indisputable and, moreover, incurable. To Corvo's impatient asking whether "that means he is mad now?" the reply was "not in the full sense of the word, but perhaps close, abnormalities can be observed." They parted quickly.
It was already quite late (meaning it was noon) when Corvo rang at Arbmos' gate. Despite the man's terrible condition, Corvo knew he would be allowed to see him without hindrance. Such things are the same in Dunwall as everywhere else. At first, of course, access to Arbmos on the part of his relations and illness was hedged by certain necessary formalities, but after a while, though these formalities were not exactly relaxed, certain exceptions somehow established themselves, at least for some of Arbmos' visitors.
His house had its two rooms in the second floor, separated by a hallway. He rested on a cot in one, and the nurses toiled away in the other. Having knocked on the gate until it was opened to him, Corvo went into the hallway and, on the nurse's directions (who had him sign a record book, to establish that he was visiting), turned left and walked straight into the room occupied by Arbmos. The stove in that room was a tiled one, and it was very well heated. The walls were plastered with yellow wallpaper, all tattered, and behind it, in the cracks, cockroaches swarmed in myriad numbers, so that there was an incessant rustling. The furniture was trifling: one table in the corner, two benches along the walls, and two chairs by Arbmos where he lay down. On the table stood a small, badly dented bronze kettle, a tray with two cups of ginger tea, and a handful of pills. There was a pot of wilting geraniums in each of the two little windows.
Arbmos' pale, dry, sallow countenance betrayed an intense suffering; he looked like he was going to die in a day or two. His beard had all pull shrivelled up and vanished, his physical position so contorted you could have sworn he broke his spine. On a minor glance one would become convinced beyond doubt of his complete and extremely ill condition: Arbmos was weak, spoke slowly, and seemed to have difficulty moving his tongue. All morning he had been complaining of an insufferable pain in his limbs. His dry face seemed to have become very small, his side-whiskers were almost nonexistent, and instead of a tuft, only a thin little wisp of hair struck up on his glossy head. His left eye would squint every few minutes, which seemed to be hinting at something.
When Corvo sat down next to him Arbmos painfully shifted his whole body, but he was not the first to speak.
"Can you talk to me?" asked Corvo. "I promise to not tire you much."
"I certainly can," mumbled Arbmos in a faint voice. "Have you regained your honour yet, from the Unmasked Ball?" he added with a sarcastic grin, as though encouraging a nervous visitor.
"That was a very long time ago, I already forgot about it," replied Corvo, smiling for a second, but immediately snapping back to a serious face.
"Heh, was it now, long ago? Oh, what riddles real life contrives for people."
"I only arrived today—to see the mess you are in." Arbmos sighed, and Corvo said again: "But not only that. I need to ask you a few questions, if you think you can answer them. I was hoping you did not lose your mind so soon."
"Things occur so fast, all above our own reality."
"Not entirely sure what you mean by that."
"Excuse my composure, Corvo—ech!" he said with a cough. "When is it the last time you and I discussed reality?"
"Reality?"
Arbmos bobbed his head in a nod.
Corvo was stolidly silent for a moment. "We conversed during the Unmasked Ball, seven months back," he said. "Do you recall? I told you about my theory on the function of time: I described history as an amalgamation of threads which can be manipulated beyond the speed of light, each thread being a piece of time, such as an hour or minute. When you—" Corvo paused, and was silent for another moment. "My 'theory' was negligible, just something I fashioned as a hobby, it went nowhere."
"Nowhere?"
"Yes, nowhere. I was only invited for the convenience of the guests to ask questions about the Wandering Stranger. At the end of the day I am a detective, not a physicist."
"Did you say the Wandering Stranger?" Arbmos looked at him fixedly, closing his eyes for only a second.
"Good," Corvo practically blurted out, "we walk the same bridge. Look, peasant families are being butchered, and have been for seven months now. To my knowledge, I am the only certified detective who deigned to investigate this case."
"You... went there... the peasants?" Arbmos exclaimed, his lips starting to tremble strangely.
"Mhm—exactly. Everyone was surprised when I told them that. But it does concern me. A schoolboy from there, and I mean the lower district, assaulted me last night, called me a demon, nearly bit my finger off. And that is not the first time I was accused of these homicides."
"Quite the insult, Corvo. So you figured out that someone wants to slander the Wandering Stranger?"
"Potentially slander me in the process."
"But, Corvo, you must know that it is not you. Not you at all."
"Huh? What is not me?"
"You are not the Wandering Stranger. Ech! He is not you."
"The hell? 'Not you'? What do you mean by that?" Corvo was dumbfounded.
"You are not the Wandering Stranger. You are not him."
Corvo was silent for nearly half a minute.
"But I know very well it's not me—what are you going on about?"
"I—heh, heh—am just raving. Forgive me."
"But you... never mind. Listen," said Corvo firmly, "one of the peasant women was killed from a bodily combustion. We discovered traces of caesium in her remains. This was in August."
"I was supposed to give a lecture in August."
"Your last one was in March. That happens to be a five month gap."
"It is."
"Listen, you were sick in August, but relatively functional compared to now. Did any samples of caesium go missing in the chemistry department round that time?"
"Heh, caesium? Why would I know? I am a neurochemist, I have no business in inorganic chemistry."
"You share the same department. Surely you would have been informed of something as consequential as the theft of caesium. It is quite expensive to seal up caesium for laboratory usage. You must explain a great deal to me, Arbmos."
Arbmos began exhaling at length, as though utterly worn down; his eyes were dreadfully still.
"Tell me about your concern," Arbmos drawled out, seemingly deliberately.
"My concern lies in my good name being tarnished. I think whoever is killing peasants must be familiar with you somehow, and they stole the caesium in August when you were absent."
"You do not seem able to get over that caesium! Nothing was stolen, or you would have heard about it. If possible, head over to the university and ask the specialized chemists there, not me," he ended with a defensive air.
"Maybe I plan to do just that for today; I just happened to come across you first. Are you saying nothing was stolen?"
"Certainly not, Corvo. How could it? Again, you can go to the university, but..."
"Sounds like you are about to add something else. But what?"
"You can go to the university, but no one will tell you anything was stolen, it would constitute a waste of time."
"What was not stolen?" Corvo put in suddenly.
Arbmos blinked, looking at Corvo aimlessly, as though he were staring past him.
"Pardon?"
"You said nothing was stolen," replied Corvo with a frown. "Can you tell me what no one stole?"
I... pardon?" he babbled again.
"Are you paying attention, Arbmos?" said Corvo, somewhat taken aback. He had meant to test whether or not Arbmos was keeping track of the conversation, or if he was just spiting him. "You have to listen. A schoolboy, along with the other lower-class residents, have been told that I am the Wandering Stranger; and one of these murders ties back to the chemistry department, or so I believe. Is there anything I am missing, a variable I have not considered? This started seven months ago."
"Not seven months, Corvo. Nine months."
"Huh? Nine months? Why, that means it started in March. How could you know that?"
"I think it was nine months ago, this very year. It came to my attention in that time; and to your attention—seven months."
"Are you serious?" Corvo suddenly fired up. "Why not tell me that right off? You mean to say these killings began in March?"
"I think I do."
"You 'think' you do?" asked Corvo bitterly.
"The schoolboy attacked you because he believed you were the Wandering Stranger."
"That is the idea, yes. Wait, wait," Corvo suddenly began pondering. "Something you said does not add up. Something is not right."
"Something, Corvo?"
"You told me... listen, you said that someone wants to slander the Wandering Stranger, but I had not mentioned the Wandering Stranger in that context before you said it. How did you guess it is him who is being painted as the killer?"
"Did you not tell me?" Arbmos, once more, seemed much exhausted.
"No, I did not. I said that I am being blamed for these killings as the Wandering Stranger, only me, not the real Wandering Stranger himself."
"Is the Wandering Stranger not being framed?"
"He is, and I am being framed in his place. But you said—you—you somehow guessed that the Wandering Stranger is involved in all this without my mention of him."
"I might have guessed from the fact that you think the Wandering Stranger is being framed. What if the Wandering Stranger is killing peasants?"
"The Wandering Stranger hunts down criminals, we know that much, not helpless habitants from the lower district. No doubt he is being framed, and someone is convinced that I am him. Do you follow?"
"I think I do. Corvo, we can all guess mischief when it brews up in places no one looks. I do no guessing—I know it is the Wandering Stranger."
"Maybe so, maybe not; the point is, no one pays any mind to the villages down south, if their wives and children start dropping then so be it, but now whoever is doing this wants very badly to sneakily label me as the Wandering Stranger. And... in addition, however did this information dawn on you in March? I absolutely need to know."
Arbmos sighed again and again. A trace of colour flashed onto his face.
"Corvo, my dear, the truth always sounds improbable, did you know that?" said Arbmos with a bitter grin. "To make truth sound probable you must always mix in some falsehood with it. Folk have always done so. Perhaps there is something in it that passes our understanding. What do you think: is there something we do not understand in that triumphant cry? I should like to think there was. I should like to think so."
He slowly ceased speaking; but suddenly, as though on reflection, added:
"It sounds absurd that I—I of all people—could be mixed up in this dilemma of yours. Either you will be slandered as the Wandering Stranger once and for all, or so many peasants will pile up that to not investigate it would come across as unjust insanity."
The two men were quiet for a whole minute.
"You have said enough," sighed Corvo at length, notes of disappointment ringing in his tone. He got up and started to head for the door. "Stay well, Arbmos. Farewell."
Corvo paused at the doorway, expecting a reply, but when none came he left, walking more quickly than before.
As it turned out, Corvo did not visit the university. On his way from Arbmos he only stopped by for a place to eat, then proceeded to walk back home.
Arbmos truly is beyond repair, he thought on the way there. I will not get anywhere with him. But how did he know about the peasants before I did? Or was that raving, too? Should I go back? No, I left for a reason. Perhaps I ought to sneak down to the lower district as the Wandering Stranger, catch the culprit red-handed. But would the Wandering Stranger not have done that by now?
On this thought he stopped walking, pondered, and then resumed his gait.
Damn it! If anyone finds out—hell, if Fredric founds out, he will no doubt bring up the Wandering Stranger's deniability. Then again, if I had been planning these murders could I have been such a fool as to give such evidence against myself beforehand? No, not at all. What am I even thinking about now? I need a drink.
He delayed once more, this time to pick up a bottle of whiskey at the marketplace, a small one. At last he arrived home, hung his coat, and continued to work at his desk. For all that was going through his mind right now, he could not afford to ignore his usual cases.
His chief feeling was one of relief at the fact that Apollinov could not hope to figure any of this out before he took off to the Gala in Equestria, which he had already covered for by planning to travel to Driscol (a city north of Dunwall) that same day, and letting many of his colleagues know about it. He did not want to analyze the reason for this feeling, and even felt a positive repugnance at prying into his sensations. He felt as though he wanted to make haste to forget something.
But that would do him no good. Questions still arose: who was killing these peasants?—the one who knew he was the Wandering Stranger, the one who "coincidentally" started this seven months ago when he returned from Equestria. It could not be Sombra, he was dead; not Apollinov, obviously, nor anyone he personally knew.
An hour later, still with these despairing thoughts in mind, Corvo took off once more, this time to the scene of a particularly recent homicide assigned to him. It was something or other involving an aristocratic get-together, and one of the attendees turned up dead, pushed out of a window, fell right on a thorn bush. Corvo was hoping work would straighten him out.
That said, this does not concern us. But if you must know, Corvo rather quickly uncovered the killer: it was the host of this get-together who wished to get his greedy hands on a fortune he was positively convinced belonged to him. That led to the murder in more ways than one, claims of righteous belonging, debts recorded, another victim for Corvo to kill as the Wandering Stranger, et cetera.
We will resume the story much later on.
* * *
But not too late. The sun still hung in the horizon by a thread, and the sky was beginning to darken.
Corvo felt mechanical, like he was strolling off wherever his feet should carry him. His work for the day was finished, and he had to start preparing for his supposed trip up north; and yet he wandered with little to no aim or reason, as though he was unfamiliar with his own city, which couldn't be further from the truth.
In that moment he felt like entering a confectioner's shop to rest, but thought better of it. He was in a state of nervous excitement and perturbation; he noticed nothing and no one; and he felt a need for solitude, to be alone with his thoughts and his emotions, and to give himself up to them passively. He loathed the idea of trying to answer the questions that would rise up in his heart and mind. I am not to blame for all this, I am not the Wandering Stranger, he thought to himself, half unconsciously.
He turned round a street corner and encountered someone he did not expect to encounter in public, especially at a time like this.
"Corvo, my friend!" exclaimed Apollinov, extending an open palm to greet him.
"Well, well, Fredric!" Corvo returned the exclamation, firmly shaking Apollinov's hand. The latter's grip was unforgivably strong. "What are you up to?"
"Oh, it is quite a lengthy tale to tell," said Apollinov, and a great flush of theatrics came over him. "I got too eccentric, you see, too dedicated. My wife told me I had started to become a bother to her, I would not leave her alone on any of my trivialities, always asking too much of her, which is why I went out for a walk. Ha, ha! Oh, but my wife is a terrific woman; I do not deserve her!"
"Did those 'trivialities' involve the Wandering Stranger?" asked Corvo readily, hunching his shoulders.
"Precisely that, Corvo, my friend!" Apollinov flashed his ghostly dark eyes at the mention. "The soirée went off without a hitch; I am very satisfied with it. Furthermore, it is almost complete, all of it, nearing completion."
"What is 'almost complete'?" asked Corvo, mildly confused.
"Why, the psychology, that which moves 'at full steam,' as you cleverly declared. The Wandering Stranger's psychology is galloping, it will come to a full stop soon, right at the cliff; and the cliff, oh, the cliff is almost here, the full stop will ensure his capture. Eh, I see I am complicating things. I do apologize."
"Not at all, I understood most of that: the Wandering Stranger will be revealing himself soon. But just what do you mean by the cliff exactly? I know it is a metaphor, but what are you alluding to?" threw in Corvo all at once, rapidly, as though mildly taken aback himself.
"Eh? Nothing really, the cliff is an abstract, Corvo, just a little imagery to help with the visualization. By cliff I mean he will reach his end, some form or other."
"Ah, I see."
"You may say so, but not even I see it. Psychology is quite possibly the most tangled and mind-boggling field one can study, it can give you everything, more than the natural sciences, more than philosophy. If you wish to locate the most complex thing in the entire universe, you must look no further than a human being. Our modes of being are so inconceivable you would not think it possible to describe on paper, which is true: there is no scientific model for consciousness. And so how can I, a mere human being in a finite state of existence, deal with the overwhelming complexity of the Wandering Stranger's mind, something not even I can comprehend? Those are the trivialities I was talking about."
"You mean to say putting practice to theory, is that right?" Corvo grinned. "You can theorize all you want, but to truly understand the Wandering Stranger is to go beyond our own understanding of psychology."
"Right on the money, Corvo!" laughed Apollinov. "I can only try again and again, always to no avail. The Wandering Stranger is a very learned man, but so clever that he looks down upon my humbleness. Aha, that is the cliff. Ex-ac-tly that: a self-reinforced cleverness is, in my opinion, that which halts your psychology and allows your vulnerabilities to be displayed in its tragic glory."
"You seem to be jumping back on whether or not you will capture the Wandering Stranger. Will you any time soon?"
"Eh? Oh, yes, today I will capture him."
"Today?" said Corvo pedantically, almost with a stutter, but he managed to remain composed.
"Very much so it is today. Are you surprised?"
"Well, to a degree I am surprised. Just now you said how the Wandering Stranger is impossible to understand, but at the same time said his career will come to a screeching halt at the end of a cliff. In what way are you going to capture him?"
"A certain way or other. Say, would you like to help me capture him?"
Damn it, why now? If I say yes it could seem like I am trying to get close to him just so I can be cleared from his suspicion, which is what the Wandering Stranger would say. But if I say no then it could draw greater suspicion to me, because he might think the Wandering Stranger would know that saying "yes" would be a bad move. Just be honest with him. "I appreciate the offer, but I must decline, at least for the time being."
"Hmm, I understand," said Apollinov. The countenance resembling his face, however, was virtually impossible to decipher, testifying acutely to his expertise; one could not tell if he was relaxed, or dubious, or on the verge of breaking off into an extempore lecture. Beads of sweat began to form on Corvo's temples.
"The day is almost over, Fredric," said Corvo. "Are you convinced the Wandering Stranger will come to you, or is it that you know where he will turn up next?"
"The former, to be sure."
"He will reveal himself? Has he given up?"
"No. He revealed himself at the soirée."
"Really! He did?" said Corvo in animation. He rested a fist under his chin, deep in thought. "You talked to everyone there. Who is it?"
"You must wait a little longer, Corvo. Everything will be made public by tomorrow morning at the earliest. I intend to produce quite the spectacle."
"Build up anticipation?" Corvo smiled.
"Naturally. Why do you wish to know so soon? Intending to beat me to it?"
"Heh, no, I only—"
"Wait. Look at the sky, the stars beginning to sprinkle in. You see what clouds, what a wind has risen? I was, in essence, hiding during the soirée."
"Hiding? Fredric, you were out in the open."
"Yes, but I was hiding my vulnerabilities, that is, my weakness from the Wandering Stranger, who was there, he was there, gazing at me. Last night I suddenly thought, 'The Wandering Stranger is here, next to me, or down the hall there, or behind me, or wherever he was. As such, how am I to simultaneously reveal his identity while keeping my distance and not ruining everything I have build up to for so long?' The answer: get him to say something only the Wandering Stranger would say. I did just that."
Is he bluffing, or what? thought Corvo. "I cannot help but think back to our conversation. Did you say something to me on the sly? Uncover me as the Wandering Stranger, eh?"
"Oh, perhaps not on that path exactly! It is all very simplistic, Corvo. So simplistic, in fact, it could render you stock-still, in a state of immobility from such over-thinking." At this Apollinov slowly and mysteriously raised his index finger, pressing it against his temple, as though making some sort of signal; his eyes gleamed with a grey light. "I owe it to psychology at full steam. The Wandering Stranger very well knows I am sniffing for him, and the soirée is, on the surface, some preliminary sniffing, while in actuality he knows it is all the culmination of my investigation in Dunwall, oh, he knows it well. I am the man who will wrong him, I have come to wrong him, I am speaking to him, and he is waiting for some message, or I him. If I make an inquiry which, should it be answered in a particular manner, would reveal him as the Wandering Stranger, what is he to do? Why, answer the inquiry in that very particular manner, because only the real Wandering Stranger would dodge it. Okay, fine, but how about a trip-up: also state something which anyone would feel compelled to address, something worthy of objecting to, and see if the Wandering Stranger does indeed object. But he would not. For what reason has he to put himself out there for further analysis, scrutinizing the man who wishes to catch him, when he can just play along?"
"Not sure if I follow, Fredric," began Corvo straight off, giving Apollinov a sternly inquiring look. "You mean you would say two specific things to the Wandering Stranger: one plainly worth objecting to, and the other one the Wandering Stranger would have to object to so he could avoid suspicion? Did I get that right?"
"Consistency, my friend! It all hinges on consistency! If he objects to one, he positively must object to the other, otherwise why fear not objecting to the particular 'trap' that would reveal him as the Wandering Stranger? Men trapped within the confines of their own souls, wreathed in torments, will at once forfeit all sense of consistency for the sake of their goal. That is it: we all have our own goals to advance towards, and that requires inconsistent thinking, lies, contradicting oneself, and so on and so forth. If a man is consistent he will constantly face truths of immeasurable inconvenience, he will suffer greatly, precisely because the man is not omniscient, he does not know everything, and so the truth, if approached consistently, will harbour the light of consciousness, the truth, that is, the light which shall display the errors of his way. Corvo, the truth is something that burns, it burns off deadwood, and people do not like having their deadwood burnt off, often because they're ninety-five percent deadwood."
"But you imply that to be consistent you must be omniscient, and because no one is omniscient, no one is consistent; and therefore literally anyone can be made the Wandering Stranger."
"Ah, the difference lies in the will of effort. If one has a why, then one can bear any how. You do not roll over and give up on everything just for the admission of your own ignorance. We know very little, but we strive ever onward. That idea is what encapsulates the human soul. Ah, look..." Apolliniv gazed at the sky for a moment, and soon enough tiny drops of water began drizzling down.
"Raining, is it?" Corvo looked up as well. "We best not stick around in the rain. It has been interesting talking with you, Fredric, but I ought to get going."
"Of course, of course, you must go, for I will start bombarding you with needless words, bordering on poetry!" chuckled Apollinov in a deep voice. "Now you know what my wife felt. Ah, all is well. Take care, Corvo."
"Take care, Fredric. Farewell."
The two detectives strode off in opposite directions, and the rain began to pick up.
Damn it all! Corvo's mind cried out. He knows I am the Wandering Stranger, he caught me at that damned soirée. This is all over. Damn it! I... I need to kill him! But—what can I do? Go back and kill him, right now? No, no, not in the open, not like this. Seems like he is heading back to his house. Should I follow him? Not yet, too risky. He said today, and I would wager it to be just shy of eight o'clock currently. That gives me four hours, if I take his word at face value.
Corvo began to reflect intensely. But I will not give a detailed account of his thoughts, and this is not the place to look into that soul—its turn will come. And even if I tried, it would be very hard to give an account of them, for there were no concrete thoughts in his brain, but something very vague, and, above all, intense excitement. He felt himself that he had lost his bearings. He was fretted, too, by all sorts of strange and almost surprising desires; for instance, as the sky grew black and it became apparent that a storm was imminent, he suddenly had an intense inclination to go down, open the door to Arbmos' house, and beat him. But if he had been asked why, he could not have given any exact reason, except perhaps that he loathed the fact that the sick man had lost his mind, which indirectly put Corvo in an even graver position than necessary. On the other hand, Corvo was more than once that day overcome by a sort of inexplicably humiliating terror, which he felt positively paralyzed his powers, both physical and that of his Mark. His head ached and he was giddy. A feeling of hatred was rankling in his heart, as though he meant to avenge himself on someone. Who was there to hate? Serath?—or the Outsider? Ridiculous.
With a peculiar repulsion Corvo decided to go back to Arbmos—the reason, he believed, was for further questioning, despite the certain fact that it would do him no good. In truth, he wanted to see Arbmos again for "some reason" or other. This is what went subconsciously in Corvo's mind.
Perhaps Corvo went back because he felt vexed at not expressing himself properly; but yet that was not it. Not really, anyway. It was for "some reason."
* * *
The doorway was dark and gloomy at any time; but just at this moment it was rendered doubly so by the fact that the thunder-storm had just broken, and the rain was coming down in torrents. And in the semi-darkness Corvo distinguished Arbmos laying still on his cot.
Just to add, Arbmos had actually gotten worse in his condition. During Corvo's first visit the sick man was dying, but now, at this moment, he looked like he had died long ago and was being kept alive by some sort of spell. It was unsightly, to say the least.
After repeating his encounter with the nurse Corvo sat down in the same chair as last time, which had not been moved. The only real change made to the room was a small, handheld mirror that had been placed against the wall on the table.
"Still hanging on, Arbmos?" said Corvo in a low voice.
There was a long pause at first. Eventually Arbmos moved his sunken eyes to meet Corvo's.
"I won't keep you long, I won't even take off my coat." Corvo stopped short. "So you stare and say nothing? Lost your voice? Listen, I have only one question, and I need an answer, just one."
Arbmos still remained silent. Suddenly, without a motion of hand or anything, he turned his face away.
"What is wrong with you?" said Corvo, raising his voice.
"Nothing."
"What nothing?"
"It is no matter to you. Let me die alone. Leave me be."
"No, I will not and cannot leave you be. Answer me this: how did you find out about the slaughtered peasant families in March, when it only came to my attention in May?"
"I quite forgot how," said Arbmos with a contemptuous expression, and, turning his face to Corvo again, fixed him with a sort of wildly hateful look. "You seem very ill yourself, your face is sallow; you do not look like yourself."
"My health is irrelevant; answer the question."
"And why have your eyes become so red? The whites are quite red. Are you suffering greatly, Corvo?"
"Listen, I will not leave without an answer," said Corvo irritably.
"Why bother me in my final hours then? Why must you torment me?" said Arbmos with suffering.
"Eh, the devil! Cut the histrionics, answer the question and I will leave at once."
For at least ten whole seconds Arbmos was still as stone, not even blinking. Corvo was about to say something, but "I have nothing to answer you!" broke out from Arbmos.
"I assure you I shall make you answer!"
"I do not understand you, Corvo," Arbmos wheezed out. "I thought you and I were friends; you were very polite to me in the Unmasked Ball. What change has come on you?"
"We are not in the Unmasked Ball. We are in the now."
"Why do you keep worrying?" Arbmos suddenly stared at him, not so much with contempt now as almost with a sort of repugnance.
"I worry because you will not answer my question." Is this little interview all in vain? I still did not confirm if he is all there, mentally speaking. I have to be quick about this.
"Is it because you will be unmasked soon? Is that why you worry?"
"Unmasked? What on earth do you mean by that?" reproached Corvo, utterly baffled.
"You do not un-der-stand what I mean?" drawled Arbmos reproachfully. "Why would an intelligent man such as yourself want to put on such an act?"
Corvo gazed at him silently. The unexpected tone in which Arbmos now addressed him, full of unheard-of arrogance and spite, was unusual in itself. There had been no such tone at their first meeting earlier today.
"Do you even comprehend what I am asking of you?" said Corvo at length, his voice almost shaking. "Hell, do you even comprehend the words that come out of your own mouth?"
"Quite so."
"Are you sure?"
"Corvo, my dear, go home... sleep peacefully... do not fear anything. Everything will be alright, everything alongside your fit of passion."
Corvo gave a start. He jumped up and seized Arbmos by the shoulder.
"Tell all, you deranged sponger! Tell all!"
Arbmos squeaked in pain. Corvo, realizing what he was doing, let go instantly.
"Eh... ah... eh..." Arbmos began huffing with some noticeable effort. "D-do you know... I mean... do you understand why you are here?"
"I understand only that you are crazy. You have lost your mind."
"Don't you get tired of it? Here we are, just the two of us, so what is the use of putting on such an act, trying to fool each other? You are the Wandering Stranger, and have been all along. Heh, heh."
"So you think I'm the Wandering Stranger, huh?" Corvo went cold.
Something shook in his brain, and he began shivering all over. Now Arbmos in turn looked at him in surprise: he was struck, at last, by the genuineness of Corvo's fear.
"So you never saw this coming?" murmured Arbmos. "What sort of attitude are you showing me? Why get upset so readily? Let me relay some verse I know:
Come now in the despairing land,
But dark they all stand
Redemption and drink and dastardly light
Upon the world victory is a blight—
I cannot remember the rest. Heh, heh."
"You know what?" began Corvo. "I am afraid that this is all a dream. You: a dream. A ghost is sitting there in front of me."
"There is no ghost, Corvo, besides the two of us, and some third one. No doubt they are here, that third one, between the two of us."
"What? Who is here? What third one?" exclaimed Corvo, looking round, his eyes hastily searching for someone in all the corners.
"The third one is destiny, Corvo. Destiny is life, and life is evil."
"Tell me what you know!" shouted Corvo in a rage, but with some constraint, as though attempting to conceal the shaking in his voice. "You are either crazy, or you taunt me. Talk!"
Arbmos kept watching him inquisitively, as before, with no trace of fear.
"Rest assured, Corvo, I will talk," he finally said in a weak voice. "Those dead families from the lower district—all my doing, every single one of them. Now you will die, very, very soon."
"What the hell!" cried Corvo, and, jumping up quickly from his seat, he reeled backwards so that his back struck the wall, drawn up tight as a string. He looked at Arbmos with insane horror. It was as if he had forgotten that Arbmos was a helpless man, and he a man in his prime with magical powers.
"You went away for some time, without forewarning, and when it was known that you came back, I set it all up," continued Arbmos, not in the least disturbed by Corvo's fear.
"You?—killed those women and children? And the caesium?"
"All me, Corvo."
"But—no, wait—how? You are horribly sick; you can barely move."
"Think, Corvo, think. I got an eager bunch to conduct my business for me. Some people will do anything for coin."
"But... why?" And Corvo suddenly flared up, and rushed up to Arbmos. "Damn it, you despicable creature! Why do all this? Why?"
"Why, Corvo? Simple: to expose your identity as the Wandering Stranger. This was all according to plan, to say, it was to distract you. Mr. Apollinov knows this, he knows everything."
"He knows!"
"You should at least take your coat off, Corvo, or you might get all sweaty."
"Wha—? Damn it all! Listen, I am not the Wandering Stranger. On what level of self-delusion are you operating on to reach such a conclusion?"
"No need to scold me. If you are not the Wandering Stranger then you have nothing to worry about. The 'truth' will reveal itself in good time."
"Not true. You attempt to frame me; I might be locked up due to false accusations because of you."
"You truly think I do this out of some conventional justice? I don't care if you kill criminals in your spare time. Go right ahead, don your mask, raise your sword."
"You don't care? Then what is going on in that head of yours!" Corvo shouted this time; he was beginning to act out of style.
"You better get going, Corvo. Mr. Apollinov will capture you in the next handful of hours, and after that?—heh, heh, who knows the echelons of torture they will put you under. Or perhaps public execution..."
"Ah, to hell with you!" Corvo began marching out. "Time alone will end you soon enough!"
"Before you head out, Corvo," Arbmos cut in, even with a bitter smile, "I have but one last thing to tell you. I promise it's of capital importance. Please listen."
"Huh? What is it?" Corvo turned round, seeming struck, blood rushed to his face.
"You see the mirror on the table? Yes, that one. You noticed it when you walked in, I can tell."
"Yes. What of it?"
"A mirror reflects all, Corvo, even the most insignificant details. Look into a mirror and you will see yourself in reverse, but everything else in the background will be in reverse, too. You would not notice that, would you, because you only spend time looking at your own face in the mirror. That is superficial. A mirror reflects all, everything, everything, even the abstract. And the reflection of malevolence is... malevolence."
Corvo shook his head in disbelief, not falling for the nonsense Arbmos was spewing—possibly another distraction. He hurried out without even closing the door, walked past the nurse without saying goodbye, and stormed off onto the streets.
* * *
How long was he in there for? Hopefully not too long. But why did it matter? Corvo's head was spinning.
When he left Arbmos' house he walked on intrepidly, but after a minute he stumbled, and nearly fell over. He felt his determination bound by some sort of new sensation in his heart, but one he could not make any sense of.
He was overcome by insufferable depression, which grew greater at every step he took. Corvo had been depressed before, he had been in situations which would even give one depression and he made it out perfectly sane; but this he could not reflect on properly. Very little made sense. Where was he going? To his house? No, definitely not, or rather not immediately.
The Gala! he thought. There is still time!
As he walked along the streets he noticed how abandoned everything had become. Even places such as markets, or certain houses, went dark. True, it was officially night time, but even now one could expect a decent number of lights still beaming from windows, tiny bells ringing, or the occasional passer-by.
At first he was concerned, but upon turning the corner into the street where Serath lived some windows were still glowing; in the distance he spotted folk rushing indoors due to the pouring rain.
But eventually his apprehension grew too great for him to bear. With his hands in his pockets he lit his Mark, activating his Dark Vision, and nearly had a fit. Beyond the block ahead, down the road, there was a figure resting against the wall, facing his general direction. Judging by the highlight it was wearing a uniform and held a pistol in its hand. Corvo subtly turned his head left, viewing two other figures at his side, on the other end of the building. There were probably others on the rooftops, signalling to one another.
He was being followed. But by how many? Were they guards, or a few hired hands from a certain gang?
This must be Apollinov's doing, thought Corvo. His face had become unimaginably pale. But they will not arrest me just yet, or they would have done so earlier. I suspect they are waiting for me to arrive home. But why? Just to ensure an alibi?
Corvo picked up his walking speed.
Serath should be home right now. I can convince him to come to Equestria today. Surely I can. I cannot show up to the Gala alone if the ponies are expecting him, too.
It seemed like an eternity—what with the torment of being followed, and the rushing storm—when he arrived at Serath's front door, and knocked three times. This was to his benefit: if he took Serath with him it would confuse his stalkers, including Apollinov, and they would be forced to delay just enough to buy him more time.
"Coming!" Corvo heard Serath's voice shout out. There was a clang of the lock, and the door opened. "Corvo? I was not expecting company tonight."
"Had to shake up the schedule. Is your wife home?"
"Yes, she is. Please do come in! Wait, wait, stay on the mat. Goodness, you are all soaked!" said Serath as he closed the door, and the sound of rushing rain became partially muted.
"Eh, yes, apologies." It only now registered in Corvo's brain that he had been wandering in the rain this whole time, and that now his coat was completely damp and heavy. He was brought a towel to dry up, and a bucket to pour out the water from his boots. A sharp chill swept through him.
"Did you not think to bring an umbrella?" asked Serath after everything was put away.
"Slipped my mind," sighed Corvo; he walked into the living room, sitting down in a leather chair by the fire pit. Across from him was another chair, in between a sofa, and a portrait of some famous historical figure Corvo did not recognize hung on the wall; at both sides of the living room were hallways leading to separate rooms, both covered by portieres. There was an immense concentration resembling on his face, as though his mind were somewhere else.
"And, now that I take the time to notice, you look unwell. Very unwell. What happened?"
"I accepted a case this morning, had to analyze some corpse, took me all day. Perhaps I caught on to a fever."
"Well, this is very sudden of you. Would you at least care for a drink?"
"Water please. Thank you."
"Corvo, what a pleasant surprise," said a soft, some might even say sugary, voice. The portiere was lifted from the hallway's mouth, and Serath's wife came up to behind the sofa.
At first glance she seemed to be a most ordinary and simple being—she was pretty, not drop-dead gorgeous, but pretty, and quite timid, even round people she knew. She was a rather short woman, plump, with a soft, even, as it were, inaudible way of moving her body. Her steps were completely noiseless. She had wrapped round her plump neck, white as snow, and her shoulders a pink linen shawl. Her face was broad, and her jaws even protruded a bit; her complexion was very white, with a rosy tint high on her cheeks. Her eyes were blue, and they sparkled in the light. She smiled at Corvo with an openhearted expression.
"A pleasure to see you, Eolina," said Corvo with a weak smile, fleetingly bowing his head.
"Darling, would you mind fetching Corvo a glass of water?" said Serath, sitting down on the sofa.
"Oh, of course. Are you on business, Corvo?" asked Eolina, tilting her head.
"No, nothing official." He exchanged subtle glances with Serath. "Just here to discuss something among ourselves."
"Sounds very exciting," she remarked in that soft voice of hers.
"Ha, ha, Corvo often gives me a mental workout," said Serath, returning the warmth, striding up to his wife and laying a kiss on her lips. "Honey, the water please."
"Oh, right. Be right back." She gave a little bow and went back down the hallway where she came from.
Serath, still smiling, sat back down.
"Are your children asleep?" asked Corvo.
"Yes, tucked in. All is in order."
"Good, just wondering. Serath, listen"— Corvo leaned in on his chair —"I think we should go to Equestria right now."
"Right now?" said Serath, somewhat surprised. "Is it the twenty-first already?"
"No, I mean we should go a day early. I only ask you because I could better manage my time that way."
"Hmm, well..." Serath pondered for a second. "I am on my break today—and tomorrow, so I guess I can go. Are you sure today? The ponies will not be expecting us."
"I find it the most convenient time for me. A day early should not be a problem. In fact, perhaps we can lend a helping hand."
"On the day before an organized festival?"
"Well, when you put it like that..."
The portiere opened up again and Eolina wandered in with a rectangular glass of water in her hand.
"Thank you kindly," said Corvo, leaning over to receive the glass carefully.
"Not a problem, Corvo," replied Eolina, still with a simple expression.
"Lina, my angel, I will be heading out till tomorrow," announced Serath, casually and evenly.
"Oh..." Eolina blinked. "Right now, are you? Whatever for, dear?"
"Late night study is all, down by the archives." That said, Serath got up and headed for the closet to get prepared; he grabbed his frock goat and a coffee-coloured umbrella.
"Be back soon, dear," Eolina whispered faintly to Serath, kissing him quickly.
"I will, I will!" Serath chuckled. "Not like a book will kill me or anything."
"So sorry for coming in unannounced," said Corvo, smirking amiably, "and for stealing your husband away. This concerns some things we need to look into. We should be back by tomorrow night at the latest." He drained his glass in an instant.
"Eh, wait, tomorrow night?" Serath gave Corvo a look.
"Uh, just a guess; you can never predict the future," Corvo said this while he hurried to grab his coat, still wet; he had to fidget through the thing to put it on.
Serath shrugged. "Here, catch," he called, and tossed Corvo a second umbrella, a dark-turquoise, long, with rubber grip.
"Thank you," said Corvo, latching onto the umbrella as soon as it flew near him.
The two men bid Eolina farewell and went off into the dark storm, without much conversation till the two reached Corvo's house where he kept the inter-dimensional mirror.
Speaking of Corvo's house, it rounded up to be a twenty-minute walk from Serath's on a good day, but given the current climate, they were slowed down to thirty minutes, maybe even a bit more.
During the way there Corvo used his Dark Vision several times to scout out anyone in their vicinity. Indeed, he was being followed, there was no disputing it. When they turned the corner, right there down the alleyways, figures armed with pistols and swords lay waiting; when they past by these figures swept back, keeping their distance, as though Corvo were being studied from afar.
He was getting seriously annoyed. Fortunately it never evolved to anything beyond mere spying, and before they knew it, they arrived at their destination.
Corvo unlocked the door so they could enter, both hung their coats and umbrellas, and made sure they had everything they needed. Corvo dried up and switched to a sleeker greatcoat he owned; he stashed his folding sword and crossbow away, just for precautions—you could never be too careful.
"Do you have the presents?" inquired Serath, peaking into the billiard room.
"Yes, I have yours with me," replied Corvo. He went over to his drawer and pulled out two little boxes: one was glossy and wrapped in an emerald green paper, with a dark green bow on top and a card that read: "From: Serath Hemsworth," and the second, also glossy, but with striped patterns of azure blue, a midnight blue bow and a card that read: "From: Corvo Attano." Corvo handed Serath his respective gift.
"I still did not thank you for holding onto this box for me," remarked Serath.
"Not a problem at all, my man. I still did not take a gander at what you bought. Remember, it had to be something unique, something you would never find in Equestria."
"Yes, I remember," chuckled Serath, waving his hand. "We will find out soon enough. I am just surprised you decided to go this early"— he started buttoning up his frock coat, only the first few, which he forgot to do back at his house —"but so be it. In fact, the sooner the better."
"Right, right. You go on ahead; I need to check something quick."
"Do not take too long," Serath called out as he entered the billiard room. "Good thing only the two of us can cross." There was a shimmering sound, and then silence.
Corvo was deep in thought for a moment. He looked with a strange sort of hope at the boxed present he held before him, but made nothing of it. Suddenly he realized that he was just unproductively standing round, and then cast a glance out his window with Dark Vision: there were a few other figures right there, right down the street, watching obsessively. One of them vaguely looked like Apollinov. He cursed in an undertone and, with renewed energy, marched quickly down the billiard room and into the magic mirror.