Where in the seven hells was the mayor anyway?
He pondered for a moment as to whether it was seven or nine hells. He could remember his mother exclaiming “hell’s bells” every time he was mischievous as a child – killing a rodent with gun powder, or poisoning that postmaster – and the circus folk had always woken at seven bells. Were there seven hell bells? It didn’t really matter.
He shuffled on his arse, losing interest in his trail of thought, and remembered exactly how bored he was. He hated waiting at the best of times, and self-imposed waiting was the worst. The compulsion to just give up his little stunt and go marching into the mayor’s latrine was becoming overpowering.
‘Not long now,’ he told himself.
When the mayor returned – news sheet under his arm, steaming earthenware mug in hand – and the heart in his chest threatened to burst its bounds, Terrowin’s sheer delight would be worth all the waiting.
Idly, he opened a desk drawer and found a modest stack of gold coins. Ordering them in his palm so that the profiles of the emperor went from young to old was mildly distracting. He rolled one over his knuckles like his mother used to do, and flicked another in the air. The thought of the mayor’s eyes bulging from their sockets and dangling on those fleshy cords sent another shiver of joy through him. He wondered if they would clack back and forth like the metal balls in one of the mayor’s desktop trinkets.
The curtains gave a tremendous flap. That would have been a good time for the mayor to return, but he didn’t. Bloody hell was it getting cold. Heavy ash floated in and trailed over the expensive upholstery. At least it dragged away Terrowin’s acquired stink of sweat, whorehouse grime, and liquor.
An oil lamp on the desk offset the sparse sunlight from the window, and would allow the victim of his impromptu visit to take in his bloodshot eyes and scar-patched stubble. Terrowin actually preferred the way his lank hair threatened to fall out of its greasy sweep; it made him look half-feral. He used to stain it black with oils, but after an incident that left a bald streak across the left side of his scalp, he had let it return to a natural russet.
He flicked one of the gold coins across the room at a bookcase. Not for any reason really, just because rolling them over his knuckles was becoming as tiresome as the waiting. It ricocheted off a carafe with a pleasant ping. The mayor seemed to be even less of a reader than Terrowin, as the bookcase had naught in the way of books, and was instead stocked with the most pristinely arranged liquor collection.
He flicked another coin, aiming for a bottle next to the carafe that he identified as being particularly expensive. He missed. Taking aim more seriously, he tried again. This time, the coin rattled between two bottles on the lower shelf. He wouldn’t be replacing his pistol with a roll of pennies any time soon. He wondered if he could smash one of the bottles with a hard enough flick; there was little in life more entertaining than the pointless destruction of wealth.
He set his feet on the floor, and flicked a coin as hard as he could. It shot off at an angle and collided with a delicate porcelain globe, smashing a perfect slot and clattering inside. While he was disappointed with his aim, that globe did look to have been considerably diminished in value. His mouth spread to a crooked grin.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ The mayor was stood in the doorway. He didn’t have today’s news sheet under his arm, but he did have a steaming mug. Sadly, he didn’t drop it. Neither did he clutch his chest, or pop out his eyes. He only raised his thick eyebrows a few degrees, but that was enough. By the gods they were lustrous; an impressive feat for a man only a few years beyond adolescence. Terrowin felt a pang of envy.
‘Well if it isn’t the prodigal disappointment.’ Terrowin exuded calm, his Scoldish brogue softened by years of travel. Granted he was irritated that his grand entrance hadn’t gone quite as expected, but he could still pull things around.
‘Prodigal what?’ The mayor’s bright eyes darted to the flintlock on the desk, reflecting the dreary sun perfectly off engraved flowers in the silver – Terrowin had spent a good minute lining it up.
‘Prodigal disappointment, as in someone who’s not nearly prodigal enough, didn’t you hear me the first time?’ He rolled a coin over the back of his knuckles. ‘Or are you as tediously economical with your senses as you are guild coffers?’
‘What do you want here?’ The mayor seemed surprisingly composed, not at all like the wheedling sycophant Terrowin expected.
‘I fancied a sit down.’ Terrowin bounced on the seat. ‘And I thought: why not choose the best chair in town?’
He tossed the coins onto the glossy walnut desk top; one landed on its edge and rolled drunkenly away. The mayor’s gaze followed it, and by the time it clapped on the floorboards, Terrowin was armed with the flintlock, cocked and ready. The barrel wiggled in the way that everyone knew meant “hands up”.
‘You’ve come to kill me?’ The mayor set his steaming mug atop a small table, and raised his hands. ‘Might I ask who paid you?’
‘Oh, nobody’s paying me.’ Terrowin put his feet back up on the desk and reclined into the chair. ‘I just needed something to do on this miserable Tarnsday morning.’
‘Well, would you mind taking your feet down from my father’s desk?’ The mayor’s arms looked to be getting tired already, too used to pushing pencils instead of fighting. To think, his father was the creator of the guild; it defied belief. Sadly, the great man had up and died while Terrowin was on route from Scold, and all that remained was his heir, the portly clerk.
‘I’m quite comfortable, thank you very much. A wee bit peckish, mind. Have you got anything good? I’m sick of stale bread and I’ve heard you trumped-up richlings love a foreign delicacy.’
‘I could have the staff knock something up for you.’ The mayor allowed one of his tired arms to rest on the doorframe.
‘Any funny business, or those green eyeball things on sticks for that matter, and I’ll redecorate the back wall in brains… Luncheon however…’ Terrowin pushed his bottom lip forwards and tried to put on his best mayorly tone. ‘Most agreeable.’
‘Vivian?’ the mayor called down the hallway. ‘Would you be able to make up a light lunch and have it brought to my office? No olives.’
‘Are you not joining me?’ Terrowin waggled his pistol playfully.
‘Make enough for two,’ the mayor added.
A distant “yes Mr Perrin” was heard in response.
‘Now that’s all sorted, Walter, would you like to take a seat in my office?’ Terrowin gestured to the chair opposite.
The mayor followed his instructions, but seemed to be taking distinctly less enjoyment from the situation.
‘It’s Mayor Perrin to you, this is my office, and that was my father’s desk, so if you would please…’ The mayor was silenced by another wave of the pistol. He sighed and folded his hands in his lap as he sat down. ‘Would you at least tell me why you’re here if not to kill me?’
‘Did I say you could lower your hands? I want them so high in the air your arms might just pop from their sockets.’ Terrowin raised a stern if diminutive eyebrow at the mayor, enjoying the power a flintlock gave him. The man did as instructed. ‘What I told you, if you were listening, was that I needed something to do to fill my Tarnsday. So here I am.’
‘Unless you’re planning on balancing books with me, why come here at all?’ The mayor was becoming entirely too comfortable with the presence of the gun, and seemed to be of the opinion that just because Terrowin hadn’t shot him at first sight, that he wouldn’t do it if pushed. ‘If you kill me, you’ll not get out of the square before my guilders erase you.’
‘Your guilders won’t give a fuck when you’re gone, Walter. To them you’re just a convenience, the facilitator of a contract that means they won’t be stabbed in the back by their nearest and dearest.’ Terrowin picked an errant fleck of dry snot from the rim of his nose. ‘They might even be glad you’re gone, and elect somebody interesting to run the show; they m
ight even choose me! I’d be like a feudal lord, lopping your head off and using the stump as a foothold to propel myself to greatness.’
‘What a lovely image,’ the mayor grumbled.
Terrowin rolled the snot-flake into a little ball and flicked it onto the desk. The mere sight of it produced a visible twitch from the mayor.
‘Don’t you just find it all so boring though?’ Terrowin thrust himself to his feet. ‘This town, for a place that’s meant to be lawless, is so dull! Everyone just goes about their business, selling drugs and freshly abducted strumpets as if they were flour and eggs! It takes all the fun out of it!’
He prowled around the desk, gesticulating wildly, shaking a ribbon of lank hair free from its sweep.
‘I came to this town to be a killer with my back against the wall, hiding from the imperials, and waiting for any number of knives in my spine. Now, I’m just a glorified cleaner.’
He picked a carafe off the shelf and tossed it at the far wall and mimed shooting it with the flintlock. ‘Click, bang! Job’s done, better spend half the day getting brains out of the carpet so that the guild doesn’t get a bad rap.’
‘What’s wrong with doing the job right?’ the mayor blustered.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ In a sudden burst, Terrowin dashed for the mayor, leaping on him with all his weight.
The chair fell backwards and clattered to the ground. For a moment everything was chaos; Walter tried to escape, roll over, flailed for his captor’s gun. It was like trying to catch a squealing pig. But Terrowin was more experienced, both in fighting men and catching pigs. He scrambled atop the mayor, pressed the barrel of the flintlock hard into his cheek, curtailing the fight in an instant.
The mayor screwed his face water tight, cringing away, his head thrust into the scratching carpet. The pistol pressed harder, wrinkling young skin on the man’s temple.
‘It’s boring! Aren’t you listening to me? I don’t want to tell you again, because that’s tedious too. T-E-D-E-U-S. Tedious! Open your ears and shut your flapping mouth for a minute and I might be able to tell you…’
A rifle clapped; the noise thundered around the wood panelled room. Terrowin felt a punch in his side, was knocked off the mayor, and flopped onto his back.
‘Do you want me to finish him?’ Lord Beechworth reloaded his rifle in the doorway. He was a tall man in a fine-tailored black suit with long tails that hung to the back of his knees. His top hat was off for the virtue of being indoors and his hair was lacquered to his head so tightly it almost looked to be painted on.
Terrowin rolled on the floor, kicking and hooting. He clutched his upper arm; blood pulsed between his fingers. Through gritted teeth, he jabbered, ‘now this is exciting, wouldn’t you agree, Walter?’
Lord Beechworth readied his rifle with the sleepy superiority that only the nobles could ever truly encapsulate, but followed Terrowin’s bobbing head precisely. His finger poised to pull the trigger; a born and bred blue-blooded killer.
‘Hang on a minute, Claude.’ The mayor staggered upright and tried to catch his breath. ‘Let him suffer a little first.’
‘I have to admit; that smarts.’ Terrowin propped himself up against the side of the desk.
He’d been shot before, and always savoured the thrill of his life-force pumping from a point of burning numbness. In those moments – and he would wager this wound to be one of the worst he’d yet suffered – he felt truly alive. His heart battered his rib cage, his pulse leapt in his throat, every strained muscle gasped for the precious blood congealing on the expensive Suradeshi rug.
Beechworth stood over him, levelling the rifle muzzle at Terrowin’s chest. They both knew if he did anything stupid, there would be one more body floating down the Landslide.
‘Is there any chance,’ Terrowin wet his lips, nodding at the collection of liquor on the bookcase. ‘That I could have a snifter off your shelf?’
‘I hardly think it appropriate,’ the mayor said offhandedly as he stood his guest chair back on its four legs. He set his large rump on it.
‘Pity.’ Terrowin winced, and clutched his hand more tightly over the wound. ‘What time is that luncheon coming? I’ll try my best to not bleed out by then.’
‘It’s not coming.’ The mayor slapped his podgy belly; even cased behind tailored grey trousers and waistcoat, it was hard to miss. ‘Do you think I’ve ever eaten a light lunch in all my days? It was code for the staff to fetch Claude here. It was quite fortunate you were hungry to be honest. Though we do have numerous “panic” phrases.’
‘Oh.’ Terrowin slumped forwards and let his hands fall into his lap. Blood ran freely from the hole in his arm, darkening his shirt rapidly. ‘But we can’t do business on empty stomachs, it’s just not the way these things are done.’
‘Can I put him out of his misery yet?’ Lord Beechworth clenched his jaw, a cord of irritation visible at his temple.
‘No, Claude, patience. It’s better to know why he’s here, don’t want anyone else coming uninvited.’ The mayor leant forward, intrigued. ‘What business?’
‘I couldn’t possibly tell you.’ Terrowin huddled himself tight, trying to feign a more rapid decline than his injury suggested. Perhaps if he faked a quick death, they might leave for the coroner, and he could sidle out the window – of course there was still the threat of a real death looming closely behind. ‘Not on an empty stomach.’
‘Just let me kill him.’ Beechworth eyed down the sights of his rifle needlessly, just to show that he was serious.
‘I’ll hear what the strange lad has to say.’ Exacerbated, the mayor pushed the lord-assassin’s rifle aside and paced to the bookcase. He tugged open a drawer, extricated a fancy glass dish, and took a carafe from the shelf.
‘Here you go.’ The mayor set the containers in Terrowin’s lap.
‘What are these?’ He picked up a small brown nugget from the dish and inspected it.
‘Peanuts; from the south.’
‘A foreign delicacy?’ Terrowin chuckled, and popped the strange thing in his mouth. It tasted pleasant, salty, hopefully that wasn’t blood – as far as he could tell, he was only hit in the arm, but shock had a tendency to numb. ‘How about some medical attention too?’
‘Don’t push your luck,’ Beechworth sneered.
‘Well, we could.’ The mayor shrugged a little, his doe-eyed face half-pleading and half-convincing the imperious nay-sayer. ‘We can always lock him up should I not like what he has to say.’
‘He tried to kill you, Walter.’ Lord Beechworth rubbed his forehead. ‘You’re the leader of The Assassins’ Guild, you’ve got to accept that death is part of the job.’
‘Yes, but this lad’s a member.’ The mayor leaned in to check Terrowin was still conscious. ‘You are a member, aren’t you?’
Terrowin nodded slowly; a half chewed lump of nut fell from his bottom lip on a trail of drool. The weaker he made himself look, the more the mayor seemed to be warming to him.
‘And we have to look after our own, it’s the main tenet the guild is based on.’ The mayor was more convincing than most lordlings with their nannies. ‘And if he’d really wanted me dead, I probably would be. He’s just eccentric is all, you know what our guilders are like. You’re always saying how I don’t understand them, well, this is a perfect opportunity to get to grips with one.’
‘Alright.’ Lord Beechworth lowered his rifle. ‘He doesn’t pose much of a threat I suppose. I’ll fetch a surgeon.’
‘Thanks, old chap,’ Terrowin wheezed, unable to resist mimicking the lord’s accent.
‘Keep a close watch on him, I won’t be gone long.’ Beechworth picked up the flintlock and handed it to the mayor.
About turning with a military discipline, the lord strode out of the room. Terrowin listened to his footsteps shush across carpet, then get a little louder as he drummed down the wooden steps, eventually fading to nothing. He eyed his pistol in the mayor’s grip; loose, uncomfortable, inexperienced. Perhaps now would
be a good time to make a daring escape, but his body seemed more reluctant to spring into action than usual. His thoughts were pulled back to the task at hand.
‘You mentioned business… that’s not a word crosses many lips in our organisation. In fact, if it weren’t for me, I dare say the guild would have gone bust by now. There’s not many assassins can count higher than a set of fingers, and most are missing more than a few.’ The mayor shuffled closer, the legs of the chair scraping against the carpet under his weight. His voice lowered conspiratorially, ‘what exactly are you proposing?’
‘There’ll be gold a-plenty…’ Terrowin coughed and wheezed, drawing the mayor closer with ever weakening words. ‘Excitement, stakes, a bit of levity for once…’
He trailed off to nothing, dribbling even more mulched peanut. It was a shame to waste them as they were rather nice, but when he got into a role, he played it diligently.
‘Go on,’ the mayor prompted.
‘A competition.’ Terrowin pointed lazily at the mayor, his hand was mere inches from the loosely held pistol. Now or never.
He lurched forwards, snatched the flintlock from the mayor’s chubby fingers, toppled onto his front, and rolled away like a sausage escaping a pan. He screamed for the duration, having briefly forgotten his injuries in the excitement. Pain and adrenaline thrust him to his feet. He wobbled around to find the window, aiming the gun in the vague direction of the mayor as he did so.
‘Stay back!’ He floundered about, trying to divide his focus between the two dancing windows. ‘No wise man crosses Terrowin the Man-Butcher!’
The two windows drew together with great frowning and effort. He set off at a dash. This whole encounter hadn’t gone exactly as expected and it was better to get the hell out while he was still breathing. His thigh collided with the desk and he reeled into the window frame, stopping momentarily before tipping onto the vaulted roof outside.
The Man-Butcher Prize Page 15
