The Man-Butcher Prize

by Charles X Cross

  He made his way down another thoroughfare with a more affluent feel to it. The houses were larger and brighter, not their original white, but they had been cleaned recently. A constable smoking a pipe nodded to him from a stationary carriage, perhaps it was a warning, but William took it as a greeting and returned a nod in kind. It did cross his mind whether the price on his head had raised any since last he’d checked, but imagined the wider world might be starting to forget about “The Masquerade Killer”. If only that were true in guild circles.

  Reasoning that his chances of being identified were fairly low, he finally decided to ask for directions. While the constable was part of an organization dedicated to eradicating assassins, he was also the most trustworthy looking fellow William had seen within the bounds of the city. He pulled on the reins, stopping himself beside the carriage.

  ‘Good evening.’ He nodded a second time and turned his head so the lamplight wouldn’t fully catch his face. ‘I’ve been away a long time, this place isn’t quite how I remember… you wouldn’t direct me to Tarrow, would you?’

  Tarrow had been one of the seedier boroughs last time William had visited, he didn’t like to think what kind of state it might be in now, given the trajectory of Valiance as a whole.

  ‘Tarrow?’ The constable mused, stroking the oil from his moustache. ‘If you’re looking for a good time or place to stay, Barton would be a better bet, and it’s not half as far.’

  ‘I have friends in Tarrow.’ William wondered if the location of the guild outpost remained secret or if it had become more of an open secret. He didn’t want the constable to determine him a guilder, let alone identify him.

  ‘Tarrow, eh?’ The constable sucked on his pipe, he had a hand cupped over the bowl to stop a targeted raindrop from extinguishing it. He mused for a moment and studied the half of William’s face he could see. ‘Head down here a ways, to the statue of the Twin Fates…’

  William shifted in the saddle, turning himself a shade.

  ‘Lovely little square that, just on the edge of Barton.’ The constable rested the pipe in the corner of his mouth, the bit clicking against his teeth. ‘Then, if you still want to go to Tarrow, take a left and keep going until you feel like turning back.’

  ‘Thank you.’ William dipped his head, and without wasting a further second where he might be recognised, kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks. In a moment, he was away down the street, wind and sleet biting at him.

  Though the stop had been short, the old mare had caught a second wind, and he made good progress to the square. True to the constable’s word, it was the nicest place William had seen so far in the city, though given his route through the factories and slums that wasn’t too difficult.

  The statue of two intertwined torch bearers was surrounded by a wide expanse of cobbles, bordered by high end traders and numerous eateries that were still open at the late hour. His gaze found a couple in a window, sharing a sweet dessert in the warm candlelight. He lamented his destination by comparison.

  A shiver came under his blanket, now sodden and transferring the cold to him all the quicker. He spurred the horse again and made for Tarrow. As soon as the pooling light from the square faded behind him, the road began to narrow and wind. Street lamps became sparser, but dyed horn lanterns – that hung beside doors – kept the cobbles visible under a scarlet hue. Surroundings became more familiar to him as he neared the “old town”, and once he was fairly certain where he was, he turned off down a crooked lane for the outpost.

  The smell of smoke here was more medicinal than industrial, and the heavily cambered road collected channels of grease-swirled water around blocked drains. Washing lines that crossed the murky sky seemed to drag the leaning terraces inwards with the weight of sodden smalls and forgotten linens.

  William slowed his horse to a trot to navigate the narrow way and avoid the residents, all the time aware that they might be more than they seemed. A hunched old woman – in a blanket similar to his own – with a heavily obscured face could just as easily be a guild spotter. A homeless urchin, crouched under an overhanging roof, might be more than just a cutpurse. This was guild territory, all bets were off, save for those that were rigged.

  He slipped off the back of his horse and led it to the side of the road when he finally saw the outpost. He’d be in the dry and warm soon, with a mug of ale, at the side of a roaring fire. The reins were tossed over an iron railing set into the wall and knotted. He left the blanket over the horse, but took his pack, lest any thieves seek what was left of his silver.

  The outpost was from any estimation just another house. Dead flowers wilted from lilting window boxes, grey render cracked from rough cut stone, and broken windows had been covered with linen drapes. He stepped into the sheltered doorway and thumped on the wood. Curls of red paint came away with his palm. The brass knob twisted and the door creaked open to a sliver of shadow.

  ‘Name?’ The voice was older but William recognised the man inside as the same he had known before.

  ‘William of Fairshore.’ He set a hand on the wood, ready to be allowed inside.

  ‘We’re not open to visitors.’ The door edged closed.

  ‘It’s William…’ He stuck his boot in the gap and yelped as it was crimped tight. He couldn’t pull it back out. ‘Come on, let me in. You know me.’

  ‘I do, yes.’ The shadow inside shifted and the door pressed tighter onto William’s foot. ‘You’re William of Fairshore, The Masquerade Killer, that’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but…’ William twisted his foot to try and retrieve it, but the door pressed ever tighter. He set a hand on his pistol.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you.’ A hammer clunked behind the peeling wood, a deeper noise than would be made by any little flintlock. William raised his hands, and removed his weight from the door. ‘Good. Now, we’re not open to visitors, so please… leave.’

  ‘Would you please just tell Marilyn I’m here?’ William tried.

  The pressure was released from his foot. Instinctively, he pulled it to safety. The door slammed in his face.

  ‘Please!’

  There was no response.

  He turned with a sigh; the rain had worsened. He stepped into the street and took a long look each way, the constable’s advice echoing in his ears. Maybe he should have stayed in Barton after all. He could still go back, but the thought of spending his last few coins on one night’s accommodation needled at him.

  Frigid rain poured down his face, pulling locks of pale hair into his eyes. He trudged back through the gutter to his trembling horse. Perhaps it was best to put the city behind him and try again elsewhere. He patted the old mare’s flank and felt the hot air from its nostril on his cheek.

  ‘William.’ A hushed voice startled him from a nearby alleyway. His hand moved for his pistol, but when he saw who greeted him, his arm fell limp. Huddled tightly in a cloak, illuminated by soft light spilling from an outpost side-entrance, was the person he had come to see.

  ‘Marilyn!’ He beamed, feeling the millstone lifted from him. ‘I knew you’d help.’

  He splashed through the gutter to the alleyway and clutched her by the shoulders, taking her in. Time hadn’t been kind, grey wisped through faded russet, lines had become trenches about her features, but her eyes still had the same vivid glee. He embraced her, relieved to have someone on his side after all that had happened.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he continued. ‘I thought they’d turned me away.’

  ‘William, I…’ She eased out of his grip. ‘I thought you’d come here, I’m glad you came, I wanted to see you, but… I can’t help you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ As the millstone resettled around his shoulders, it felt all the heavier for its brief absence.

  ‘You’ve been blacklisted,’ she hissed through clenched teeth. The whites of her eyes showed as she cast about in search of spotters.

  ‘Blacklisted?’ William felt sucking dread in the pit of
his stomach. ‘Why? I killed one man. That pales in comparison – most guilders do far worse.’

  ‘It’s not that you killed the wrong man, accidents happen, but damn it William did you kill the wrong man. The Mayor of Fairshore? That’s rotten luck from The Old Gods.’ She patted her heart – some religious pageantry. ‘Nobody will deal with you now, your failure went too public. The guild wants to distance itself from you; preserve its image. So I can’t let you in, and I can’t offer you any work. If I do-’

  ‘What am I supposed to do?’ he interrupted. ‘Give it all up? Become a farm hand? I don’t bloody think so. I can shoot better than most you have holed up in that little outpost of yours. I made one mistake.’

  She pursed her lips; this was something he wasn’t going to like. ‘I can only tell you what I told Ojo…’

  ‘You want me to throw my life away?’

  ‘Ojo won.’ Her eyes cast downwards.

  ‘That didn’t end too well for him, did it? And I’m not him; he was a different breed – made for it. I’ll catch a bullet after ten minutes, it’s just my luck. Like you say, an old god’s curse. I’m not going to throw my life away like that. There must be another way, just give me a chance. One job.’

  ‘I can’t.’ She pulled a crumpled piece of paper from the folds of her cloak. ‘Take this, they have a sponsorship scheme now. You can enter with no risk; the sponsor stakes their life on your behalf. Then, if you prove yourself, you might get whitelisted again.’

  ‘You said it yourself, nobody wants to deal with me.’ Though he protested, he took the flier, flattening its creases in his hands. ‘Who in their right mind is going to pledge their life for me?’

  ‘Use your imagination; kidnap someone, bribe someone, I don’t know.’ There was a thump from inside as someone came near to change a barrel. ‘I have to go. I can’t be seen with you. Good luck.’

  William blinked as Marilyn left him alone in the rain; she didn’t turn back. The latch clicked as the door closed. Distantly, a constable’s whistle could be heard. Though Tarrow was one of the more criminal boroughs in a particularly felonious city, he couldn’t help but think the call to arms was related to him.

  He looked down at the flier, somehow not so surprised by Marilyn’s suggestion. If he was honest with himself, the idea had been flirting in the dark pits of his mind for a few weeks. With the revelation of the sponsorship scheme, it seemed his decision was made. He would be competing for the Man-Butcher Prize.

  1672

  Hand in hand, William trotted beside his father, oblivious to the reason they deviated on their route home. His mother was a few steps ahead, enjoying the cool salt-breeze, her heart-shaped face turned up to meet it. She had pale hair, like his own, and eyes that belonged to the grey northern seas. Her excitement was infectious, and though the streets were quiet, William anticipated their walk would end at a fair or firework display.

  As a family, they paused on the bridge spanning the river that fed the Fairshore estuary; three large wooden arches that rested on stone plinths far below. William was lifted and sat on the carved rail, his father’s strong grip holding him as safe as could be. They had done this a few times before, but only ever in the day to watch the ships. At night, despite the lack of embarking clippers, it was even more impressive. Moonlight and stars danced across the waves like vast schools of glittering fish, and the sea seemed to stretch endlessly.

  This was contentment: a word William would learn as he aged, but at seven years old, simply a feeling.

  He leant forwards, trusting his father to hold him as he studied the plinths below. Something floated beneath the arches; pale and intriguing. Perhaps a lost sail or errant albatross. Fairshore was a safe haven, far removed from wars and the ever-expanding frontier, but such details did little to restrain a young boy’s imagination. He craned closer, fascinated that he might just identify a corpse, jettisoned contraband, or even the raft of a pirate fleeing the hilltop gaol.

  Then the bridge was above him, and he was falling, turning over and over in the air. His father’s seemingly unbreakable grip was gone before he had even noticed it slacken. Water hit him like stone, frigid, and permeating every extremity with pain. The shock made him gasp water, and his arms flailed aimlessly. Up was merely a concept in the black of the undertow. Offering him little recourse, the current swirled around his tiny body and snatched it away from all that had been familiar.

  There was little explanation for his survival, other than the gods having willed it, or the age-old adage about “stranger things happening at sea”. Many years later, William would suppose that once he’d bobbed out of the estuary, it had happened at sea, so fell into a category of oddities that could easily be dismissed. Now, however, he hadn’t the capacity for such existential reflections, he was just a little boy trying to survive.

  When the water finally released him, and the first of his wits started to return, William found himself in a slick mass of roiling fish. Coarse rope burned into his cheek, compounded by his entire upturned weight and over fifty shimmerfin flopping on top of him. The ocean spanned beneath and far out to the horizon, lit by an early morning sun. Disoriented by the lurching upward motion, and the close brush with death, he found himself unable to call for help. The winch shuddered to a halt, suspending him and the netted fish high above the ocean. The shoreline was absent, and he realised, so too were his mother and father.

  The arm holding the net swung over the deck of a large wooden ship. A few men below pulled aside red painted grates, opening a dark pit. By degrees, the haul was lowered between the grates, and down into the hull. William stayed still and quiet, even until the knot at the bottom of the net had been loosed. He fell into a heap of swiping fins and breathless gills.

  ‘Gut and scale them,’ a well-to-do voice called from above deck as the grates were slid back into place, leaving only small squares of winking sun. ‘We have two days before we reach Bleek’s Bay, and we’re half a tonne off quota!’

  The ship’s hold was large but divided by hanging linens, streaked with grime and guts. Shackles hung from the ceiling on rusted chains, swaying and jangling against the movement of the ship. The whole space was dim, illuminated only by candles flickering in yellowed horn lanterns. Seawater, fish blood, and unwashed flesh dampened everything, allowing shadows to well all the deeper.

  Shimmerfin flopped on the boards, their wet tails adding to a jumble of noise – the low drone of workers and the thump of butcher’s knives on wood. William rubbed his salt-stung eyes, still floundering under the weight of fish.

  A blood-stained drape was kicked aside, permitting a man access to the fresh catch. His cheeks were hollow, and his ribs prominent of his sallow chest, painted with gore. He seemed to be a slave with a singular task: gutting fish. The mere sight of him screwed William’s eyes tight with fear. Chains dragging at the man’s wrists and ankles rattled painfully close as he cudgelled and collected an armful of fish, but he was gone almost as soon as he arrived.

  William stayed still until he was sure the man had left, and was about to dig himself out of the heap, when another fish-gutter flapped through the linen, even more horrifying than the first. With lopsided shoulders and a crater in his head – which took up the space of one eye and almost the entirety of where his brain might have been – he barely looked alive at all. He moaned, mouth slack, as his gaze rolled over the fish. Somehow, though this man was far more horrific than the first, William couldn’t bring himself to look away.

  ‘Gut and shale,’ the crater-headed man slurred the top-deck command. ‘Gut and sale. Gut and…’

  His one wandering eye fell on the boy, and he squealed with excitement. Hunched over, he lumbered forwards and snatched for pale ankles. William tried to scramble over the mountain of slippery fish, but the harder he struggled, the faster the shimmerfin gave under his weight. He screamed loud and shrill as he was dangled over the fresh catch. The halfwit clamped crooked fingers over his mouth, and gurgled a wordless reprimand.
r />   ‘Shut up, Lamebrain!’ another slave yelled from behind a bloodstained drape.

  William was carried into the halfwit’s workspace; a gut-soiled table, rack of knives, and buckets of prepared fish enclosed on three sides by drapes. A hole that might once have been for a cannon let in the early light, viscera trailing from the sill. With a thump, William was set on the table. The slick stump of a fish head smeared across his cheek.

  He wrestled against the filthy hand around his mouth, and lashed out with juvenile fists, but the half-headed slave was too strong for him. Without difficulty, his hands and feet were bound with ropes borrowed from rigging, and his mouth was stuffed with a scrap of canvas.

  ‘Gut and scale.’ Lamebrain broke into a gleeful smile at his perfect pronunciation. Nodding to himself, he repeated it while he retrieved his scaling knife.

  William thrust his calls for help into the gag and kicked his bound limbs with all his strength. A knife sullied with fish-scales and slimy residue was pressed against his forearm. The blade scraped upwards, whipping his body like a rankled viper-eel.

  ‘Lamebrain!’ another slave huffed. ‘If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times! Cudgel them before you kill them. It keeps the meat good.’

  Footsteps approached, and the halfwit paused, bearing his meagre collection of rotted teeth.

  The filthy curtain was thrust aside and the other slave stepped into Lamebrain’s workspace. When he saw William, his eyes bulged so far from his skull they were in danger of dropping out. He rushed to Lamebrain, and although William had been scared of him before, in that moment he took him for his saviour. As the man’s face turned dour and his eyes darkened a shade, that hope was quickly doused. Perhaps he feared what might happen to a pair of slaves caught with a bloodied knife and an injured boy, and decided it was best to be rid of any evidence.