‘Yes.’ William smiled nervously, tried to gently pull his arm away, momentarily worried that Lamebrain might continue where he’d left off all those years ago. ‘Gut and scale; well done?’
‘What are you doing?’ An assassin with long black ringlets and a chin the size of a ship’s bow shoved William away from the slave. ‘It’s rude to speak to a man’s sponsor, don’t you know that?’
‘Excuse me?’ William looked the foppish hitman from head to toe, unable to hide his disgruntled expression. ‘He spoke to me first. We’re old friends… in a way.’
‘Yes well, he belongs to me, and he’s not interested in speaking to the likes of you.’ The ringleted dandy puffed out his barrel chest and placed bejewelled fists on his hips. William came to recognise the embroidery on his frockcoat; it matched the symbol from the back of the carriage that had clipped his arm and ruined his last shirt.
William wasn’t so eager to get into an argument, he wasn’t even that pleased about the crooked horror coming back into his life. Though Lamebrain didn’t look quite as horrific as William remembered. The man was shorter than him now, deathly pale and thin – though seemed strong from relentless labour. He was assuredly the victim of some dreadful accident, a casualty of the Scold War perhaps, or one of the countless southern conquests. There was a leather belt around his neck, and sore skin beneath it; the privateer-type had been leading him about like a dog on a gilt rope. There was great injustice in it, but William couldn’t intervene, not with so little time left before the starting bell.
‘Goodbye, Lamebrain.’ William clapped the slave on a hunched shoulder. He didn’t feel so good about calling him that, but the slave seemed to delight in being remembered. ‘And good luck.’
If only there was a way to wish the sponsor luck, without wishing it to the entrant too.
‘Yes, and good luck to you.’ The privateer chuckled, steering his slave away with the fancy leash. ‘An honourable death to us all.’
‘Bye fi-sha,’ Lamebrain called after him. Words fell out in gasps as he loped away, ‘fiss, fish, fishhy.’
William waved farewell. Something about seeing Lamebrain again brought a smile; despite the mad slave’s sour circumstances, he seemed happy enough with his lot. It gave him hope; if an emaciated, braindead slave, with chains on his arms and legs, could survive a burning and sinking ship, then he stood a chance at winning. It also sparked the thought that Lamebrain might surmount the odds and survive the competition, of course that would mean the privateer had to win: a terrible thought.
‘Everything alright?’ Vesta asked as he caught up. She and Goldin had found a place well suited to the little man and stopped.
‘Just a bit of a misunderstanding.’ He massaged his scar. He could still feel the line Lamebrain had traced down it with his finger.
‘William, remember Dr Barber?’ Goldin reintroduced the wheelchair-bound scientist and his sponsor. William wasn’t sure whether it was coincidence or prior arrangement on Goldin’s part, but he was glad to be at the opening ceremony again with such an esteemed committee member. Maybe this time he might not make such a fool of himself.
‘Nice to meet you again, William.’ The doctor smiled crookedly. ‘This is my sponsor, I call him Barbie. He’s one of my doppelgangers.’
The cripple’s sponsor looked eerily similar, but straightened out, and with full use of his legs. If Dr Barber was punctured offal, his sponsor was a freshly inflated pig’s bladder, ready for street urchins to kick. He offered his hand for William to shake; he took it.
‘Nice to meet you.’ William smiled weakly.
‘And you.’ The doppelganger nodded like a well-trained servant.
‘Good, isn’t he?’ The crippled doctor smiled. ‘He’s the brawns to my brain.’
‘Are you twins or something?’ William looked from one face to the other. Despite the lop-sidedness of one, it was uncanny.
‘Something like that, yes.’ The cripple stroked the doppelganger’s arm with his chicken-foot hand. ‘I won’t bother explaining it. I tried to make it simple for Goldie and he still couldn’t fathom it.’
‘Goldie? Are you two friends now?’ William chuckled at Goldin’s bizarre ability to turn any adversarial encounter into something quite amiable.
‘Oh yes.’ Barber rubbed his claws together. ‘We got drinking together in Melting Moments. I was there to watch Barbie take on some of those big women and…’
‘You wouldn’t start without me, would you?’ Genevieve appeared through the crowd, she was holding two mugs of effervescent liquid. ‘Have you sampled the refreshment stands yet? I’m quite certain they’re not poisoned; I had my sponsor take a swallow and he seemed alright.’
She navigated her mouth to a reed that bobbed in one of the mugs. Quite unable to stop himself, William fixed on the delicate work of muscles around her mouth as she sucked.
‘Are you all as excited as I am? It feels an age since I last killed someone; this week has been hell.’ She looked about the group, seeing that Goldin and William had joined Dr Barber. As she spotted Vesta, her eyebrows twitched into a momentary frown. ‘Hello, are you a guilder? I don’t believe we’ve met.’
‘I’m William’s sponsor,’ Vesta replied flatly.
‘Oh, you found one then? And she’s pretty.’ Genevieve gave William a look as if he was bringing home his first girlfriend. The way she cocked her eyebrow and gave him the slightest smirk brought a scarlet warmth to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He glanced away, foolishly choosing to appraise her fighting gear: form fitting panelled leather, white kid gloves and scandalously tight trousers sliding into high boots. She had a sniper’s rifle over her shoulder on a strap very similar to Goldin’s, but the buckle had been properly adjusted, and sat just right.
She leaned close to Vesta, fixing her with a sly expression, and said in what could only be described as a pantomime whisper, ‘lovely to meet you; hope you don’t die too gruesomely.’
Vesta was taken aback but hardened quickly, sneering, ‘and you.’
Leaving no time for the animosity to simmer, a small boy sidled up to the group. A pickpocket or beggar; perhaps a marketeer’s boy here to sell last minute supplies.
‘We’re not interested.’ William shooed the little boy before he could peddle whatever nonsense he was peddling.
‘What?’ The boy scowled and pouted. He certainly did have an attitude on him. Spoiled from the look of it. He had a thick shirt that put William’s to shame; plaid, as was the fashion in Garland. He even had little suspenders and a cravat, as if a rope belt was beneath an urchin such as himself.
‘We’re not interested in whatever you’re selling.’ William rolled his eyes. ‘And we don’t want to be minding our pockets, so take your pilfering little fingers elsewhere.’
‘William.’ Genevieve cast a withering look his way and set her hand on the little boy’s shoulder. ‘This is my son.’
He opened his mouth to quickly back pedal, but she hadn’t finished yet.
‘And,’ she drew the tension out a little, clearly enjoying herself, ‘my sponsor.’
Any lingering interest William had in the lissom markswoman faltered and died. That she had a child was no deterrent, but the wanton sacrifice of a life she had created, doused his lust as surely as the northern seas had stolen his breath.
‘Quite ingenious, don’t you think? My motherly instincts will surely give me the edge in battle.’ She smiled at the poorly hidden surprise on William’s face. ‘And weak willed sops who like to call themselves assassins, but don’t have the guts to kill a sweet little cherub like mine, will be easy pickings.’
Stunned, unable to find the words to put together just how cruel Genevieve was, all William could do was stare at her. He didn’t dare to look at the smug child. Somehow, she had even convinced her own son that this was the best way she might win. The kid really had no clue just how horribly he might die.
The crowd shivered into silence, the absence of excited chatter raising a
new chill in William. A short distance away, the mayor took to the stage for the final time, initiating proceedings that would begin the deathly competition.
1667
Terrowin woke to the high whine of his own ears; the sort of bodily phenomena caused by a history of shooting firearms and then the absence of any other sound. The ceiling above him was dreary grey stone and the wall at his side was equally bland. Across the room was a heavy door set in a row of iron bars. A jail cell. Exactly where he didn’t want to be. It was far more meticulously kept than any imperial dungeon; there were no torture devices, or rats snuffling around, not even an interesting growth of mould to fixate on.
A cell like this one meant he’d be sentenced to years of hard labour for his intrusion. Bleeding to death would have been preferable. He had only been awake for about twenty seconds and the near insurmountable life of drudgery that lay ahead was already weighing on him like a slab of lead.
He sat up in his cot, swinging his legs to the floor. He could vaguely remember a few interactions with visitors. Until now, he had been too short on blood to gain a full hold on consciousness, so his recollections were only the vaguest smears. They had interrogated him, but he couldn’t remember his answers or even the nature of the questions. From the dullness of the pain across his whole body, and the dramatically reduced sting in his arm, he could reasonably guess that he had been recovering for a while. The fuzz on his chin certainly supported that claim.
There was a distant memory of being bathed with a sponge and his mouth lacked dryness – still tasted of gruel. They had been treating him well enough. None of that would matter in five minutes, however; he had a good mind to take his own life. He wasn’t bitter about it; they said you only live once, but they – whoever they were – also said the afterlife was a paradise. He didn’t see much wrong with arriving there a little early, he would be able to see his mother again, get on her nerves in that way he did as a child. That would be nice.
He refused to live out his life as some chain-gang slave. He had come here for the chance of excitement, and while it had been worth risking his life, it wasn’t worth a slave’s lot. His mind was made up.
He stood up and studied the roughly cut rocks that made up the far wall, until he found a particularly aggressive brick. Without taking another second to think about it, he ran as fast as his legs would carry him, with his head down and his hands wrapped behind his back.
The pounding thump that echoed through his skull floored him for a good ten minutes of constant screaming and crying. He might have killed himself in one, had his legs not been so atrophied; another good hit might finish him off entirely.
He dragged himself up and tried to find the same spot on the wall. In any other circumstance he could have located it easily, as it was marked with a big red patch of blood, but for some gods’ forsaken reason the stain had decided to multiply and dance in figure eights across the wall.
He grabbed a fist of air, fell to one knee, and then eventually slumped onto his arse. Time lost definition. Maybe twenty minutes passed, maybe a few hours. He wondered whether the pain would ease off, and if it did, whether it would set him back to square one. Perhaps his first collision was banked for later, so only one more major head trauma would sort him out.
‘Are you alright in there?’ The mayor’s familiar voice pierced through the haze. ‘I told them to get me when you woke, but I didn’t expect you’d be halfway to killing yourself by the time I got here.’
Terrowin tried to push himself to his feet to go for another round of head-versus-wall, but his legs were failing to keep him upright.
‘I don’t want to be a prisoner.’ Terrowin tried to make out which of the two fluttering mayors was the real one. ‘Freedom’s boring enough. Could you do me a favour and just finish me off? I don’t really mind how I go if I’m honest, a blaze of glory would be great, fading out here would do, but it’s a bit drawn out. So, if you’d just grab something heavy and stove my head in, that’d be grand.’
‘You really are quite mad – an exemplary guilder – and I just can’t fathom you. Beechworth’s right, it’s harder to get in the head of a guilder than I thought. He thinks I should get my hands dirty, kill a man, then maybe I’ll know what it’s like.’
‘Kill me then; stove my head in, then maybe you can have a little root around.’ Terrowin tried to stand again and flopped against the bars.
‘Not my cup of tea. My father’s maybe, but not mine,’ the mayor chuckled. ‘I was interested to hear out your proposal. See, I’ve inherited the run of this guild, and I don’t want to lose it. I need guilders to steer me, tell me what they want, and I’ll filter it through some kind of sanity. I need people like Beechworth, but I also need people like you; common, deranged, brilliant in your own way.’
‘You’re quite a talker,’ Terrowin groaned.
‘Beechworth had you locked in here for the safety of others, didn’t want you hurting anyone in your daze. Since you were feeling better I was actually going to let you go. But now… that’ll have to wait until your head’s fixed.’
‘No! I’m fine, look.’ Terrowin slithered up the bars. ‘Just let me out, I’m not disposed to prison life. I’m fine, just…’
He let go of the bars and tried to stand. It was like he was balanced on top of two five foot needles; the world spun around him, he staggered, slipped, and fell. His face cracked on the rusted iron bedframe. It took him another quarter of the way towards death, knocked three teeth from him, and plunged him into unconsciousness.
Chains dragged on Terrowin's wrists and ankles. Not exactly ideal, but a brisk march through wintry streets was infinitely preferable to any more time in the cell. Two guilders escorted him, both armed with blunderbusses that could blow open his chest with the pull of a trigger. He presumed they were taking him to meet the mayor, but there was also the possibility they were leading him to the hangman. He found the second prospect far more tantalising; whenever he had seen men hanged before, he would always daydream on the possibility of a daring rescue or escape. The thought of being the man on the gallows, moments from the end, then fighting his way to safety, set him tingling with anticipation and put him in a rather good mood.
Though the sky was overcast and the sun only a hazy white disk, he thought the way the perpetual twilight caught the ash stacked rooves of the buildings was a delight. The air was frigid, but his breath came out in pleasant steamy gusts, and the sting of cold around his temples made him feel alive. In comparison to the hellish solitude of the drab cell, it was all so wonderful. So lovely, in fact, that he thought it worthy of note.
‘Lovely day,’ he noted.
One of the guards grunted in response and gave him a nudge to quicken his pace; evidently not so awed by the mundane beauty of the world. Since the attention from the mayor’s doctor, Terrowin’s legs felt sprier than they ever had. He might have been tempted to make a break for it, had he not been chained to a heavy iron ball.
Ash was falling steadily and the crows – that usually plagued the townsfolk for scraps – huddled in eaves to keep clean. Terrowin opened his mouth, caught a falling flake on his tongue and instantly regretted it. He doubled over to choke out the taste.
One of the escorts, a tan-skinned southern guilder – with red and white feathers in her powdered dreadlocks – pushed a trumpet-like musket to his back. She spat to the mud, and drawled, ‘appreciate it without dawdling, hm?’
‘No need to be miserable about it.’ He contorted his face into a parody grin, but started walking as she instructed.
‘Turn right up here.’ She responded to his petulance by shunting his jail-ball with a well-placed boot, dragging him sharply into the next street.
She was all business and no joy this one; didn’t even carry a flint-headed throwing axe, or wear a necklace of scalp flesh and rotting ears like she was supposed to. At least that’s what the empire veterans had assured him when they showed him some caricatures. The little etchings had been pinned all around
the conscription depot.
At the time, the prospect of fighting “real savages” had been a tempting one, but ultimately he’d refused. Orders and Terrowin went together like Waiting and Terrowin; not very well. He suspected now that he had made the right choice; this assassin was just like any other guilder, no more terrifying or savage as far as he could tell. He doubted she would last that long in Scold, let alone the northern reaches of Scoldland. He had barely come out with all his sensibilities intact, and he was definitely more savage than she.
As the road opened to the town square, Terrowin was more than a little disappointed. There was a distinct lack of gallows, a pyre or even a crowd to see him off, so a death defying escape would have to wait. They were escorting him instead to the town hall. It was a comfort that his idea would at least be heard, and that would bring him one step closer to the all-out madness he craved.
The two guards led him through the main doors; the more conventional route to the mayor’s office. The chequerboard foyer, blonde bespectacled receptionist, crisp sign-in sheet and sweeping staircase were distinctly less exciting than the column he had scaled and the roof apex he had balanced along last time. He was kept in his chains, but one of the guards did pick up the heavy iron ball so Terrowin could ascend the stairs easier; very generous.
‘There you are!’ Walter extricated himself from a desk full of mayorly paperwork and greeted Terrowin as brightly as if he were Lord Beechworth himself. There was a half-finished glass of whiskey in his hand, and the remnants of a distinctly heavy lunch peppering his three pieces of tweed. ‘Feeling better?’
‘Terrible, thank you.’ Terrowin showed his teeth, and the gap behind his canines. The motion on his face pulled at bruises that seemed to be all over his head. It served as a quiet reminder of his failure in killing himself, of which, currently, he was quite pleased about. Not since his last visit to the mayor’s office had he felt this level of anticipation.
The Man-Butcher Prize Page 17
