‘Do you want to die, William?’ Ojo whispered into his ear. ‘Do you not remember what I said? Life feeds on death; it’s kill or be killed.’
William’s head was pushed up by the force of his mentor’s arm. His eyes stared towards the open doorway. For three hellishly long seconds everything faded to grey. Then the world came rushing back with a single gasp of air. The hall swam into focus with a wave of nausea. Ojo was talking, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. He tried to kick but his legs seemed a world away. Pressure was released again, allowing him a second breath.
‘William? Do you want to die?’ Ojo’s words came through softer than before. William’s head shook vigorously against the assassin’s grip. ‘Good. Then reach out, wrap your arms around this man’s neck; take his life and save your own.’
William hadn’t the capacity for reason, only the will to remain alive, and for that he would do anything. Ojo shuffled to the postmaster’s side, his arm still pressuring William’s neck. He spat out a command, ‘kill him, William.’
As Ojo did with his victims, William looped one skinny arm under the postmaster’s chin. His other hand held on to his wrist, pulling his forearm tightly across the man’s warm throat. He pressed hard on the windpipe, struggling to maintain pressure after being throttled himself. He grit his teeth and snarled from the effort of it until Ojo let go, allowing him to fully refill his lungs and pull tighter on his target’s throat.
As the assassin had said, William felt the postmaster’s soul slip away as his body fell limp and heavy. He stayed still, breathing slowly, gorging his lungs, heart beating wildly.
‘He’s dead,’ Ojo commented calmly.
William stood up and looked down at the postmaster. The haze had nearly passed, leaving behind only a sickness in his gut and an emptiness in his chest. He had killed another, his third in total, but it was too much to think about right then. He felt numb.
‘Time to go.’ Ojo pulled his clothes straight. ‘The imperials will be here soon.’
William trudged for the door, but just before the threshold, Ojo set a hand on his shoulder.
‘The first few are always hardest, but you get used to it.’ The assassin smiled warmly.
William took another step forward, away from his master’s praise, feeling like he had left a part of himself behind.
‘William.’
He paused at the soft command.
‘I’m proud of you.’
1682
‘This is looking good.’ Dr Barber slathered a purple-tinged salve over William's arm. It was abhorrently fragranced but immediately soothing; even when Dr Barber’s clawed chicken-digit skirted the edge of the knife wound there was barely even a tickle. ‘Vesta is a good field medic.’
‘She’s good at a lot of things.’ William flicked a glance to his sponsor, but she was far off in a daydream, staring out into the crowd.
At a tug, William turned his attention back to the doctor’s work. Barber was stitching his flesh back together; he had reopened the wound to thoroughly clean and treat it with secret elixirs. There was no pain, but the friction of the thread through his skin made him feel queasy. With a pair of scissors tailored specifically for his chicken-foot, Dr Barber snipped the trailing strand and wrapped the arm in clean bandage.
‘How’s that?’
William flexed his hand, he could barely even tell that he had been stabbed. The potency of the doctor’s elixirs were akin to the fantasies of village shamans. He wondered if the stories Barber espoused about curing death could really be true.
‘Why are you helping her?’ William nodded to a hulking mass wrapped up in clean linens and pocked with needles.
A group of referees and Barber’s underlings had been helping the remaining entrants back to the square for the last few hours and treating their wounds. Some were better than others, and a few were not far from death; Barber’s men had saved them all.
‘Anyone who survives until the chapel bell sounds is healed, no matter how wounded. Ottilie is no different.’ Barber regarded her mountainous form. ‘It appeared most of her wounds were cauterised, I imagine that’s how she lasted so long. Still, most in her situation would have bled out; she’s as strong as an ox that one. Despite the loss of her arm and minor damage to the brain, she’ll live.’
Another glass of blood was hung on an iron stand and connected via a pipe and needle to the huge Scold’s vein. She groaned in pain as the doctors wrenched her another few feet from death; one of Barber’s workers squeezed on a pig’s bladder hung on a similar stand, forcing more tonic into her body.
‘What if she dies now?’ William probed.
‘Then she dies.’ Barber shrugged.
‘You wouldn’t bring her back?’
‘William,’ the doctor chuckled, ‘you are naïve.’
It was a kind of relief to hear Barber finally relent. William didn’t like the doctor casting doubt upon what should be the undeniable truth of death.
‘The ingredients required are far too expensive to waste on the likes of her.’ Barber handed off his scissors to his new assistant, who shared an uncanny resemblance to his deceased sponsor. ‘I used to have a supplier, but he disappeared. Now, the components I require are well guarded and too remote. I financed several expeditions, but they all failed.’
‘So you can bring people back?’ William pressed a hand to his forehead, wondering what to do with such information.
‘No, William. You’re not listening to me. It would take the wealth of a small nation. Don’t get yourself killed, because there’s nothing I can do for you.’ The assistant took the handles of Barber’s chair and angled him away. ‘I have more patients to attend. Good luck, truly.’
‘Right.’ William nodded. ‘Thank you.’
He turned to Vesta, eager to demonstrate how he could clench his fist without the slightest pain, but her attention was fixed on an entrant at the far side of the enclosure. Her brother was hunched in a chair, eyes hate-filled and trained on the pair of them. Half of his face paint had trailed to his neck in streams of sweat and one of Dr Barber’s assistants was stitching closed a gaping hole where his ear had been. Despite his attempts to stay out of Harm’s way, Harm had found him anyway.
A small huddle of his remaining devouts were gathered at the far side of the rope, proffering ceremonial blood vials and their own elixirs. A broad man in a grey suit was among them, and though he wore none of the cult garb, William could tell he was the superior from the way the others fawned about him. He had sparse, dark hair, a wide, pock-marked face, and the sourest expression William had ever seen. He liked to think the man’s exasperation was down to the vast losses suffered by the cult, but knew that if their red-faced champion won the competition, scores more would flock to their cause – whatever that happened to be.
Vesta breathed heavily, her features stern and still; William could feel the bench they sat on shift as all her muscles tensed. One of the doctor’s assistants passed between them, breaking line of sight.
‘William! Vesta! See you made it through in one piece.’ Goldin tramped onto the wooden platform between two referees who had parted the velvet rope for him. He dropped his little bound sponsor with a thump, collapsed onto a bench opposite, and promptly kicked his mud-caked boots off, releasing a pungent aroma. He didn’t seem to mind the grimaces of his fellows, sparing no time in peeling off socks sodden with sweat.
‘William.’ Vesta had not offered Goldin more than a cursory glance. ‘I’m going to have a quiet word with my brother; this might be the last chance before we kill him.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ William was already halfway to his feet. It was against the rules for the Lambs to harm her before the competition resumed, but he didn’t like giving them the opportunity. There was something about their doctrine that quashed their urge for self-preservation, and he could easily imagine a Lamb sacrificing himself to a guild execution just to be the one that had killed Vesta for “the Cause”.
‘I�
�ll be perfectly alright,’ she insisted, then stood with a wicked gleam in her eye.
Watching her stroll across the roped-off square, William felt a twist of anxiety. His palm itched for his flintlock.
‘Bloody hard work, killing trained killers.’ Goldin pulled one foot up over his knee and started massaging a blister on the side of his big toe. ‘I’ll be glad when it’s all over and I’m back to knocking off rich old women for inheritances.’
William forced his gaze away from Vesta and tried to concentrate on the little man.
‘It is good fun,’ Goldin continued with a wince as he popped the cherry-swirled aspic from the blister. ‘Though I do wish the excitement was as brief as it is exhausting. I’m craving a hot bath, a generously proportioned woman, and a bed so vast I could get lost in it.’
The referees welcomed another assassin. Genevieve and her son, both impeccably clean and unharmed, stepped onto the raised platform. She greeted Goldin with a distant respect as she crossed the corral, but paused when she saw William, theatrical surprise describing her amazement that he should have survived to this point. She might have said something, but Ottilie growled and snapped her teeth, aides crying out as they wrangled with the injured bomber. It seemed she hated the markswoman with a fiery passion, even after the extensive damage she had endured. William fingered his pistol and ground his teeth, united in his hatred, determined to wipe that self-satisfied smile off Genevieve’s face. Fortunately, the markswoman strode to a vacant bench some distance away.
To distract himself, William counted the number of collected assassins; twenty-two in all, with sixteen sponsors amongst them. It was amazing how the referees had managed to keep tally given the vast battlefield of the town, assuming no more stragglers were still making their way for the square. He could feel victory in his grasp, whether that be the prize or simply coming close enough to earn his way back onto the whitelist. Still, to keep Vesta alive he would need to win, and that meant any contestant here would have to submit or be killed.
The two referees guarding the corral parted, permitting a final assassin. Panting from the battle and the long walk back to the square through tacky mud, was Man-Butcher Azul. William swallowed a lump. In the mania of battle he had forgotten the man had entered, but there he was, as plain as day.
‘Ojo!’ Goldin waved his hand, a brown stained sock trailing in his grip.
‘What are you doing?’ William hissed.
‘He’s your mentor, isn’t he? Thought he’d want to sit with us.’
‘Yes, he is but…’ William scowled and fidgeted. ‘It’s a bit more complicated than that.’
Ojo strolled over. There was a look of mild confusion on his face, but there was free space on the bench and it seemed he would gladly put up with the likes of Goldin to have somewhere to rest. He nodded in greeting, throwing them a false smile, and sat down.
‘Tough competition out there this year, last time I…’ He made his best attempt at idle conversation, but trailed off as he came to fully appraise William. ‘I… Is it? William, is that you? What are you doing here?’
The man’s face contorted. To William it looked like equal parts embarrassment and shame, but he could just have been seeing what he wanted to see.
‘Well, it’s been a pleasure to meet a man-butcher in the flesh.’ Goldin was hastily donning his socks, accurately predicting an uncomfortable conversation. ‘I think one of the weaponsmith’s apprentices wants to speak with me over there.’
He pulled on one boot and started hopping away as he tugged on the second, adding, ‘truly, a pleasure.’
‘It’s me.’ William tried to keep his features impassive. ‘And I’m sure you know why I’m here. Our time apart hasn’t been too kind. I managed a few years alright, but ran into a spot of bad luck. You seem well though… the last I heard you were dead. Feeling better?’
‘Yes… I did plan to come back for you.’ Ojo pursed his lips. ‘It’s hard to explain, so much happened. I won the prize; came into a large sum of money. It was brilliant for my patron, damn near saved him, but it wasn’t enough. It’s still not enough.’
‘So you faked your death and abandoned me?’ William glowered. ‘I wasn’t ready. I could have died, I nearly did a few times, and if you’d trained me properly, I might not be sat here now: blacklisted.’
‘I could say I was sorry, but I don’t like to lie.’ Ojo sighed and shook his head. ‘I did what was best for everyone.’
‘I find it hard to believe. You never cared about much other than yourself.’ William stood, considering the conversation done. It would have been better if his old mentor had stayed dead.
‘Perhaps it’s best that we leave things on this bitter note.’ Ojo turned away from William to greet one of Barber’s underlings. As he rolled up a sleeve to reveal a long but shallow cut, he added with some finality, ‘if we both survive to meet again, odds are I’ll be choking the life from you.’
William scoffed, felt his hand flex for his pistol, but stopped himself. He watched his old mentor for one last moment, seething. He wanted nothing more than to give Ojo a hard time, to make him know what suffering he had caused, but he also knew it would be wasted on the old fool.
As he watched, the student physician retrieved a handful of elixirs and a roll of bandage from a leather bag. He quickly set about cleaning and dressing the minor wound, but as he did so, he passed one of the bottles to Ojo. It was a small vial that had drawn William’s attention as soon as it emerged. It looked as though it was filled with blood, but William recognised the dark syrupy tincture. As an apprentice, they had posted many such vials to Ojo’s patron; a cure for a mysterious ailment. Ojo drank from it promptly, unaware that he was still observed.
William turned away and headed to where Goldin had sequestered himself. He had seen all he needed to see of his mentor, and understood more than the assassin might think. Though he still begrudged the old bastard for his callousness, he pitied him also.
The next few hours passed mercifully quickly, eating and dozing around the corral. The mayor announced the location of the finale – a small area around the Landslide and southern bridge – and an apprentice of the weaponsmith took orders from each entrant. Taking advantage of the free equipment, William had opted for a new pistol for Vesta and two dozen cartridges each. Considering how many entrants were left it was quite extravagant, but it was better to be safe. Vesta returned from taunting her brother and had suggested explosives, but William didn’t like the thought of a grenade on his belt catching a bullet; he didn’t want to end up like the groaning mass of anguish Ottilie had become.
Before long, the assassins began their trudge through the streets for the steaming Landslide River. Not one of them seemed particularly excited. The rest and treatment over the last day had invited lethargy and each wished that the fighting was done already. A gloomy sky and persistent fall of ash doused the mood further, while mud-choked roads sucked at boots.
The mayor and a huddle of referees led the parade with a purposeful march. William took a position with Vesta towards the rear of the ragged column, Goldin and his bundle of a sponsor beside them. Behind, was a second and third rank of referees, and beyond that was the crowd following with an encouraging roar of approval and excitement.
The roads that bordered the Landslide had been cobbled, and though cluttered with hastily abandoned market stalls, they were free of the cloying mud that saturated the rest of the town. Already, the myriad roads that finished at the riverside were filling with spectators; it seemed their new arena was far smaller than the mayor had suggested. The competition might even be done before the hour was out – both a worry and a relief.
The roadside ended abruptly with a sheer drop to the swirling river of earth, black slurry, and spuming steam. Vast chunks of warped rock that had recently oozed from the mountain rumbled past in the torrid current. They cracked into one another and split to expose glowing magma with sulphurous belches.
The referees parted to allow th
e mayor to address the assassins. Unfurling an officious scroll from an embossed message tube, he began to read aloud, his voice drowning the growl of the river.
‘This fight will resume in two parts. Ojo Azul, Alfred Voss, Adelia Burnham, Ottilie of Sable, Hester Turani, Nathanial Wraith, Jillian Dunn, and Violet Reeve; the fight for you and your sponsors will resume on this side of the river.’ The mayor rolled up the parchment. ‘Anyone else please follow the head referee to the starting point on the far bank.’
The group split in two and William followed the referee across the sturdy bridge to the far side of the river. The air was stifling, filled with a sour stench and thick with steam. Very few words were exchanged as the assassins prepared themselves to kill one another.
There were a few William didn’t recognise amongst the combatants on his side of the river, but he had come across some already. He didn’t much like being on the same side of the river as Goldin, he had come to think of the abrasive little man as the closest thing he’d got a friend after Vesta, and didn’t want to fight him. Genevieve and Vesta’s brother would be fighting on this side of the river too, and he didn’t much like that either. With Genevieve odds-on to win and the cultist actively hunting them, it narrowed William and Vesta’s chances significantly.
‘How are you doing?’ He asked Vesta, who had been almost mute since she’d returned from exchanging final words with her brother. William suspected it was her solemn way of coming to terms with her likely fate, but hoped that she remained as optimistic as he wished he could be.
‘I’m fine.’ She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘My brother’s on this side of the river with his sponsor, and this place is crawling with referees. He can’t cheat us again, and we’ll kill him in a fair fight, easy.’
‘Just… don’t get carried away.’ William tried to temper her ire. ‘He’ll die if we win, let’s not get ourselves killed sending him to hell.’
The Man-Butcher Prize Page 28
