‘Let’s see these new recruits.’ A new voice echoed through the chamber.
William swept his lank, bloodied hair back over his head as the congregation parted for an imposing man. He wore black robes, red trimming his cuffs and collar. His over cloak was covered in fur rather than wool, fine and straight and grey. His face was painted with fresh blood to make it vibrant, but molten looking on one side from an old burn. Where the scar trailed down onto his neck and the blood-paint finished, it was a deathly pale.
Perhaps the gods existed, and perhaps they had truly been watching. As perfectly as a scene from an Arabella Flatt operetta, the villain of the piece had made himself known and now stood mere feet away. With a face as burnt and miserable as his, the scalded man could only be the cult leader; William’s target.
‘Emerge from the font, my new brother and sister.’ The scalded man walked regally to where their belongings lay in piles on the floor. William began to ascend the steps out of the font, Vesta padding behind. The air was cold and greasy against their blood stained bodies; everything not conducive towards a naked inspection. The scalded man’s eyes traced their bodies from feet upwards. He muttered something about fine specimens before speaking more publicly to the congregation.
‘These Lambs have spilled their blood for you, and so too will you spill yours for others. We here are one large family, and we give ourselves to the Cause fully.’
‘I am your brother and you are mine.’ The scalded man embraced William bodily, pressing every contour together in a slimy tangle. ‘I am greatly pleased that you will be competing as a Lamb in the upcoming days, it will be an honour.’
‘Thank you.’ William grimaced, pleased to be released.
He could almost touch his flintlock with his toe from where he was standing. If he was quick he might be able to get off a shot and escape before the blood-letting cultists lit any more bombs; but he was getting ahead of himself. This man’s overbearing presence was driving him to hurry; he couldn’t. He had to take the target unawares, make it look like an accident, just as they had planned lest he lose the cultist’s assistance in the competition.
‘I am your brother.’ Red-face moved on to Vesta. From her muscular legs and flat stomach, over her breasts to her face, he assessed her. She took it in her stride, but shied a little when his gaze rested on the curious wave in her hair. It still clung to the small divot in her skull. He drew her more carefully into his arms, and kissed her cheek, adding, ‘and you are my sister.’
1674
Mr Ruth’s eyes foamed with beef-flavoured pus. His skin blistered and popped, and even the inside of his mouth and throat had been routed by the scalding liquid. He screeched and gurgled; his hands trembled around his head, too afraid to make contact with the fleshy ruins.
The joy of revenge was horrifyingly absent. Though Vesta had hit her intended target, the fatty broth had sprayed the wall, the door, and doused the young man that had followed in his employers’ wake. Equally scalded down one side of his face and blinded in one eye, was her brother. Cowering against the doorframe, his one remaining eye looked at her wide and betrayed, weeping as freely as the other.
‘I’m sorry,’ she choked.
Behind her, the underling and cook had returned with the half-pig on a long pole and were wrestling to set it down. Ahead, past her brother and Ruth, the gang leaders came to assess the commotion.
Aiden shook his head in sorrowful disbelief, his mouth trailed drool; his fingers trembled from shock. On one side, his lips were stuck together and he cringed with the pain of parting them. She would never forget that momentary image of true remorse on his face, but as the gang leaders drew close, he became harder, more stoic, and swallowed down the pain. His gaze became flinty, filled with hatred for Vesta, for the position she had put him in.
His half-mouth spat two words, ‘kill her.’
Vesta’s whole life tumbled to ashes around her. The last thread tying her to this family had been severed. Regret suffocated her; she should have tried harder to find work, she should have dissuaded him from joining the gang in the first place.
A thousand retrospective thoughts would not change the situation. Everything had been spoiled so thoroughly.
She hitched her skirts and ran for her life.
1682
‘Vesta, it is so nice to see you again.’ The red-faced cult leader ran his finger down her narrow jawline, peeling away a dried slick of Lambs’ blood.
‘Don’t touch me!’ She slapped his hand away.
‘I had presumed you’d starved in some ditch years ago, or been lost to the imperial brothels. But now you are my sister twice; once by birth, and second by the will of God,’ he continued with a smile. The burnt side of his mouth rucked back to reveal entirely too many teeth.
She spat blood tinged saliva in his face.
‘Mind your manners.’ He mopped himself clean with a linen square proffered by one of his devout cultists, taking away a patch of daubed-on blood to reveal the pallid scar of a face beneath. ‘It would be wise to make the most of our reunion, as it can only be brief. My deacons have advised me that your sacrifice for the Cause has been moved forward. To just before lunch.’
‘So you’re going to kill me, just like you did Father?’ Her fists clenched tight.
William was desperate to extricate himself from this situation. There were nearly thirty cultists surrounding them, each armed with at least a small knife. By comparison, all he had was two single shot pistols, the indignity of nudity, and a hot-headed employer that wasn’t paying nearly enough. He wondered if it was still possible to convince them he had no knowledge of Vesta or her intention to kill their leader; probably not.
‘Is that what you think? That I killed father?’ The red faced man scoffed. ‘After what you did, I had no choice; The Associate saw my family as a weakness. Try to see things through my eye, then maybe you will come to hold yourself accountable. Just as I do.’
‘This is all your fault!’ Vesta petulantly shoved her brother. Cracks echoed all around as the cultists sparked their ignition rods. ‘Don’t put me at the centre of all this.’
‘What was I supposed to do? I wasn’t even home when the fire started, but you were, weren’t you?’ He snatched her by the hair and pulled her close; words spitting venom across her cheek. ‘I’ve long suspected it was you who sparked the flame. You’ve done nothing but try to tear apart everything I’ve ever worked for. Everything I did…’
‘Everything you did was for yourself!’ she screeched, savagely punctuating every word with a jabbing finger to his chest. ‘You’re as selfish as me and then some. It’s no wonder you’ve built your empire on the backs of the dim and destitute.’
The cult leader’s patience withered. He thrust Vesta backwards. She staggered a pace, then her bloodied foot slipped on a flag-stone, and she tumbled down the steps.
William lurched for his clothes, picked up one of his pistols and barged a few cultists aside. He rocked upright, and trained his sights on the red faced man. The best he could hope for now was a swift and painless exit. It didn’t really matter if Vesta survived, but if she did, he would have to give her a stern talking to.
‘That’s enough!’ he roared, waving the flintlock to make sure everyone in the chapel had seen it. ‘Vesta, are you alright?’
‘Nothing broken,’ she groaned and tried to prop herself up; the sparking end of a charge rod brandished towards her eyes sent her cowering back to the floor.
‘What exactly are you going to do? Shoot me?’ The red faced man chuckled. ‘Do you have a death wish?’
‘I fancy my chances, one trained assassin against a rabble of lunatics.’ William rolled his shoulders and eyed the grenade-toting cultists one by one.
‘What about the guild?’ The red faced man ambled to William’s pile of gear and picked up the other flintlock, the silver one; his favourite. ‘They will come down on you like a lump hammer on a heretic’s skull.’
‘And why is that?’
William hesitated; he couldn’t afford to be disqualified, and he certainly wasn’t going to let himself be killed before he’d repaired his reputation.
‘It’s against the rules to kill an entrant in the days leading up to the prize – you know that – and it just so happens that I have the honour of competing.’ Red-face levelled his pistol at Vesta, and the cultists closed ranks, menacing with their charge rods and glass grenades. ‘You’d be hanged, drawn and quartered; and that’s just to start.’
That changed things. Though William was blacklisted, he was still a member of the guild, and still bound by their rules. He couldn’t kill his target, but he could still escape.
‘I’m entering too,’ William blurted. ‘So you can’t kill me either.’
Red-face contemplated a moment, then directed one of his underlings with a hand signal. William heard footsteps to his back and tensed, ready for a fight.
‘Go on then.’ Red-face casually waved him off, just as one of the large chapel doors was pulled open. ‘It’s been nice meeting you, I absolve you of your oath. Now go.’
Silently William pulled his clothes on over blood soaked skin, hoping that it wouldn’t stain. He couldn’t afford another new shirt. Pushing his luck just a little, he asked, ‘can I have my pistol back?’
Red-face blinked, incredulous, the barrel still levelled at Vesta. ‘I’m using it.’
It was a wrench to leave the gun that had started it all; he would have to come back later for it. Then they’d be sorry. As he turned to leave, he was met with the cowering, blood-soaked, and entirely pathetic Vesta. He owed her nothing, but he couldn’t harden his heart to her plight. His shoulders sagged. He had already decided to do something stupid.
Without putting too much thought into it, he planted his feet, about turned, and dashed for Red-face. Both pistols fired. One bullet struck a cultist, and the other smashed a grenade. It popped, flaring with white light. William closed his eyes, and though he tried to stop himself, collided with the cult leader. He fell backwards, landing on hands and knees, but stopped himself tumbling down the stairs. There was a secondary burst, alarmed shrieks, more glass shattered; the flash was blinding even behind his lids. He heard Red-face call out for help; he sounded hurt, perhaps caught in the second blast.
Quickly recovering from his daze in a surge of adrenaline, William found he had lost his second flintlock in the tumble. He pulled up his shirt, already catching the scent of spark powder in the air, and covered his mouth with the blood sopped fabric. When he could finally see enough through streaming eyes, his ears still throbbing with a high-pitched whine, he scrambled for the first weapon he could make out; a sparking charge rod.
He angled himself in Vesta’s direction and scrambled down the steps towards her, ready to crack the head of the cultist pinning her down. When he got close enough, he realised the man was already dead; half his head had been blown off by a stray bullet, adding its contents to the pool around Vesta. He offered her a hand, she grasped it and he hauled her up, thrusting her towards the still open doorway. He followed, shielding his eyes from the painful light of the dreary sun.
They emerged into the square, the cries from the cultists overwhelmed by the reaction of the townsfolk ahead. Naked, and half naked, covered in blood, one wielding a lit charge rod, they must have looked a terrifying sight to the downtrodden locals.
William led the way, darting left, out of sight of any cultists who might have been quick enough to grab a firearm, and avoiding the centre of the glass and gore strewn square. Vesta kept pace, despite a wince in her stride from her tumble, and actually passed him before turning down a narrow alleyway. There, out of sight, she slowed a little, but kept moving. The pair were both breathless now, tired from the sudden shock and exertion, but unable to stop. He tossed the heavy charge rod to the gutter and she stole a forgotten blanket from a washing line, as marred by ash as it would be by blood.
Turning another corner, Vesta wrapped herself and pressed her back to the wall. Still gulping mouthfuls of air, she asked, ‘did you get him?’
‘Get who?’ William wheezed, bending double, his hands rested on his thighs. He looked back; nobody was following them. Yet.
‘My brother, I heard him shout, did you get him?’ She spat into the gutter and wiped her face, sweat was carrying the old blood into her mouth and eyes.
‘I don’t think so, no.’
‘We have to go back, while they’re still in disarray, we can get him.’ Vesta, pushed off the wall. ‘Come on.’
‘No.’ William blocked the way back. ‘Look at yourself.’
Huddled tightly in the filthy blanket, arms folded, hands pressed in the opposite pits for warmth, she was still shivering. Her eyes were streaming and sore from the filth and the flash and the constant weeping. She had no weapon, not even a pair of shoes. William wasn’t much better, yes he had managed to dress, but he was similarly defenceless, and he had caught more of the flaring light. For the time being, his vision was blemished with a fat streak of colour.
‘We can’t go back, it’s done! They’ll be ready if we do, and, I can’t do it. We missed our one chance, and… You heard your brother, it’s against guild rules-’
‘You’re an assassin!’ Vesta wanted to stomp or punch the wall, or punch William – he could see that clearly enough – but she didn’t let her frustration turn to violence; because in that moment, she was as delicate as spun sugar. She shook her arms and cried in exasperation, before continuing, ‘just break the damned rules! You’re an outlaw aren’t you? You still have to do it, you have a debt to pay, a debt to me. You signed a contract.’
‘And you compromised that contract! I warned you not to come along,’ William bit. ‘You spoiled it all. Didn’t you think it would be pertinent to tell me the target was your brother?’
She tried to force past him but couldn’t; raised her fist, and for a moment he thought she might strike him across the face. He would have let it happen too. He had let her down as much as he had himself: ruined her contract, lost the support of the Lambs, and stomped his reputation even further into the muck.
She did hit him, but not in the face, and by the time her fist collided with his chest, the force and will was gone from it. She fell onto him, clutching him in an awkward embrace, the arm that had struck him crumpled up between them. She sobbed onto his shoulder.
He stood there for a moment, then put his arms around her and patted her back. While he had been starting to believe this argument might be the most explosive yet, it had petered away all the quicker from their exhaustion. He hadn’t the energy to disagree anymore. Since he had said his goodbyes to Goldin, Vesta had been his only companion, and he couldn’t waste any more energy at loggerheads.
‘You can only hope someone kills him in the competition, and if he somehow wins, or drops out, then you can put out another contract.’ He stroked the back of her head, the hair was lank with half dried blood; clots came away with his fingers.
‘I still have a contract with you, you have to kill him.’ She wasn’t shouting anymore. It sounded more like begging, and with sobs punctuating the words, it made it all the more compelling.
‘I can’t…’ Pursuing this red faced cultist was a fool’s errand; he had far too much backing.
‘I already paid you, you took it; you have to do the job. You’re entering the competition anyway. You can kill him then.’ She pushed away, still holding him at arm’s length, and fixed him with blood-rimmed bloodshot eyes. Little lines of clear skin trailed down where tears had washed away the dirt.
‘Now I’m out of the cult I don’t have a sponsor. I can’t enter.’ He wondered exactly how he might get one now, time was certainly running out and this little expedition had only seen him worse off in every way possible. He didn’t like to admit it, but without a decent weapon, he didn’t think anyone would be mad or wild enough to join him. ‘I might have to try again next time.’
‘I’ll do it.’ Vesta’s eyes twinkled, though that might have
been from the tears.
‘What?’
‘I’ll be your sponsor if you kill my brother like you promised.’
A few days prior, this would have answered all of his problems, but she wasn’t thinking clearly. To press this madness would surely see her dead.
But, if William was more truthful with himself, should he fail to get back on the whitelist, he had no strong skillset to find gainful employment, and lacked any connections to keep him hidden from revenge purses. He had nothing but the clothes he stood in, and if he didn’t enter the contest this year, he was done for anyway.
Vesta held him firm, waiting for an answer, stoic as a guild doorman. She had the same desperate hope as him, and was determined to a fault.
‘Do you know what being a sponsor means?’
‘Yes I know what it means!’ She snapped, holding his gaze with an intensity he couldn’t refuse. Even if he did, she’d just find another way to kill her brother.
‘Well…’ Unable to find an argument she’d listen to, he relented. ‘Alright then.’
‘Thank you, Will.’ She threw her arms around him. ‘We’ll get him together.’
William couldn’t say he was happy to have Vesta as a sponsor, but he couldn’t turn her away, not when she was offering exactly what he sought. At least he would have an ally at his side. Perhaps his luck would turn for the better.
‘We need to go, before the Lambs come looking.’
Part 3
1667
Terrowin reclined. Sat in the high backed chair with his feet on the desk and the curtains flapping ominously behind him, he looked pretty damn good. He chuckled at the thought of the mayor returning and near shitting himself from the sight of a strange assassin in his office, then chuckled again at the thought of the mayor actually shitting himself. He cut his laughter short; the scene wouldn’t be nearly so surprising if the mayor heard him giggling from down the hall. He pursed his lips, sat still in his most nonchalantly intimidating pose, and waited.
The Man-Butcher Prize Page 14
