A chokehold. A quiet drag. Two unconscious bodies slumped behind a velvet curtain. He picked the lock on Emily’s door with a hairpin, and when the hinges creaked open, a small figure launched herself at his legs.
Emily squeezed his neck. “You’re shaking,” she said.
He carried her through the window, Blinking across the rooftops as the rain washed the city’s sins into the sea. Behind them, the Golden Cat glittered like a poisoned jewel. Ahead, the Hound Pits Pub waited—a den of conspirators with their own hidden blades. dishonored 1
No. Not tonight. Emily came first.
He knelt, lifting her onto his hip the way he had when she was small enough to sit on his shoulders during state processions. “We’re going home,” he said. A chokehold
The Golden Cat was a silk-draped hell of perfumed vapors and captive women. Its patrons were nobles who paid in coin and cruelty. Corvo had learned their names from the Loyalists—Admiral Havelock, the spymaster Pendleton, the inventor Piero. They promised to restore Emily to the throne if Corvo did their bloody work. He didn’t trust them. But he trusted the Lord Regent even less.
Tonight, he was not here to tempt fate. He was here to save a princess. He picked the lock on Emily’s door with
The rain over Dunwall had not let up for forty days. It fell in greasy sheets, washing blood and whale oil into the Wrenhaven River. Corvo Attano knelt in the shadow of a copper gargoyle, his masked face tilted toward the lamp-lit windows of the Golden Cat. Behind him, the city groaned—a dying beast choked by plague and the Lord Regent’s iron fist.