The Man-Butcher Prize

by Charles X Cross

  ‘Mr Azul,’ the barmaid called them to a halt. She was wiping down the bar with a cloth and held their empty glasses in one hand. ‘Good luck.’

  1682

  William looked up and down the line of his adversaries. He couldn’t see much on the other side of the gallows; the supports were thick and seemed to be placed almost precisely between him and each assassin. He wished now that he had paid more attention to the remaining competitors, even basic information such as the weapons each favoured would have proven invaluable.

  Taking stock of all that wasn’t obscured by great steam clouds belching from the river, he noted the positions of all the entrants he could see. Each assassin had been marked with a referee, who would follow them until death or victory. It was an effort to ensure whoever ended up on the podium won without any underhanded tactics or rule breaking – a mild reassurance after the chaos so far.

  William’s referee introduced himself as Abelino, and had quickly reviewed a few pertinent rules, stressing on one in particular: once the bell rang there would be a minute with no combat, to allow all assassins to take up strategic positions. William had read all the rules at the competition sign up, but for Vesta’s sake he was pleased to be reminded. Now she was fully aware that killing her brother before the grace period was up would result in her execution as a rule breaking sponsor.

  She was becoming increasingly irascible, and though he could only imagine the stress upon her, he knew that if they could just win this damned competition, all of their problems would be washed away. Liberty was within reach; the gold afforded by winning the prize would ensure he never needed to kill again, and with Vesta free of her oppressive past she might join him in a less shadowy future. He stopped his thoughts, pushed them away; he had to stay focused on the competition or that future might never come to pass.

  As the referee bid his goodbyes and took his position five paces behind, Vesta checked her pistol was loaded for the third time.

  ‘Not long now,’ she muttered.

  ‘It can’t be more than five minutes before the bell,’ William added, seizing the opportunity to continue their conversation. He couldn’t help but feel that things had been getting on top of them since the competition had started, and though they were supposed to be a team, they hadn’t been communicating as perhaps they should have.

  ‘No,’ Vesta replied in a hushed tone, for a moment William thought she was shutting him out, but then she continued, ‘Not long until this whole thing is over. Then we can put this horrible town behind us.’

  William lingered on the word “we”. He wondered if she had been thinking along the same lines as himself, that they might move on from this together. She could also mean that they would both move on, albeit separately. He wanted to ask, but for the moment, living with the doubt was better than being rejected entirely.

  He continued his study of the battleground. To his right, Genevieve and her son stood with rod straight backs waiting for the bell. She had a standard issue pistol strapped at her hip and an unusual black iron rifle clutched in her hands. Silently, she pulled mechanical catches and slid a small cage of what William could only assume were cartridges into a slot. He squinted to try and make it out better, worried that such an unusual contraption might be even better than the marvel that had been Beechworth’s rifle. He wondered if he had made a mistake in asking for only a simple flintlock when the weaponsmith’s workshop had been opened to him.

  The bell in the chapel on the hill rang out over the river. Its peal skewered William and set his heart aflutter. He stood there for a moment, unsure of how long it would be until the next bell, and completely uncertain of where to go. The other assassins were already on the move; Genevieve dashed by in the direction of the bridge. It seemed she intended to fight on the other side of the river, where there were bleachers of VIP spectators to impress.

  ‘William!’ Vesta shook his shoulder. ‘Why are you just standing there? We need to do something. We can’t just stand out in the open.’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ He spun around slowly on the spot in his search for cover, but there wasn’t much except for the gallows and they were already sheltered well enough by that. There were carts of refuse downstream near the bridge, but he didn’t want to follow Genevieve too closely.

  Red-face ran by, skirting the river’s edge, following a similar path to Genevieve. He would want to fight by the bleachers too, to raise the profile of his cult under the watchful eye of his superiors.

  ‘For Luck’s sake!’ Vesta cursed and sprinted ahead. By the time William realised, she was yards away, tailing her brother for the bridge.

  ‘Vesta!’ William growled and set off after her, his marked referee following in his wake.

  She didn’t listen to him, doubling her efforts to catch her brother. He couldn’t keep up.

  ‘Vesta, stop!’ he shouted again, but all it served to do was rob air from his lungs and make the chase all the harder.

  As his path curved to the edge of the riverside and he dashed along it, he could see down into the churning waters some ten feet below. The river ran in a walled channel through this section of the town and looked to be certain death should anybody slip into the waters.

  Red-face rounded onto the stone bridge. If Vesta followed, she would be trapped with the cultist. William called her back, but a blur in the corner of his eye and a thump to his chest stopped him.

  He staggered, winded. One foot tangled behind the other and he slipped over the edge of the channel. He clawed out, narrowly missing a grip of somebody’s shirt that might have prevented his fall. His fist struck the stone bricks, scratching knuckles and beading blood. The heat and humidity from the river covered him like a blanket as he passed over the lip of the road, certain he would be washed in the searing tumult.

  He slapped to the ground, enveloped in warm silty earth. His body throbbed with the force of the landing and he rolled onto his back. A gout of steam erupted nearby and he breathed in sharply as he was splashed with scalding water. He sat up and recoiled from the edge, quickly taking stock of his surroundings. He had landed on a little island of muck that fringed one of the stone pilings of the bridge, the construct itself reaching ten or so feet above in a series of arches to the other bank.

  Echoing through the murk, the second bell sounded. William’s stomach knotted and before the chime finished it was drowned out by the sound of gunfire.

  ‘Shit,’ he hissed, scrabbling to his feet. The wall stretched above him, barely a hand hold in sight on the smooth, cut stone. He had no idea how he would get back to Vesta. At the top, his referee was peering down at him. ‘Abelino, help me up. Get a rope or something.’

  ‘You’re not dead then?’ The referee wiped his nose with the back of his hand and reached for something tucked into his belt. ‘Shame.’

  A pistol glinted over the bridge, snatched up in the referee’s hands, an ugly grin splitting his features. ‘You will not hamper the Cause any-’

  William shot Abelino in the gut. The damned referee had tried to knock him in the river. He stepped aside as the man crumpled off the wall and landed beside him. A kinked neck cut off any cry of pain or further cult patter. With a well placed boot he rolled the body into the water, not wanting to be caught murdering a referee, even if that referee had been placed illicitly by the Lambs.

  Mercifully, it seemed he was hidden from all spectators and invigilators in his current position. Whatever stewed in the volcano, thrusting ash into the air and turning the river to a black slurry, had angered over the past ten minutes. The waters bubbled with an intense heat, shot out great gouts of sulphurous steam that hung in the air like a thick fog. Even now, tendrils of the fetid smog were curling up over the bridge and spilling over the riverside walls. He pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose to breathe easier and reloaded, feeling the pressure of Vesta left unguarded, and set about finding a way back to street level.

  Though the small island petered away as it weaved around the bridge pilings, it
was still wide enough for him to skirt around. Scalding spray flecked his boots in black and brown. The river roared like a beast, echoing under the stone bridge, the wind howled by. His feet slipped on the soft silt a few times, and one boot dipped into the steaming water. A rugged lump of volcanic rock that rumbled along in the current clipped his foot and nearly dragged him in, but he spun around and dug his nails into a groove in the mortar.

  He sidled around the remainder of the bridge support to another small deposit of dirt and waste, scattered with little cages from some ill-advised fishing attempt. There was a steep muddy path that he could clamber up to the paved riverside. He could make it back to Vesta, and if he could do so quickly, there was still a hope that she lived.

  Mud clumped under his smooth leather soles and his hands gripped ineffectual fists in the muck. He slid back down three times over before backing away and taking the slope as fast as he could. His feet pounded into the slippery mulch, but his momentum carried him far enough to get a hand hold on the edge of the stonework.

  He hefted himself up the ledge, his feet running in frictionless channels. With a stunted leap, he got both arms over the lip of the road, squirming until he could heave one leg onto the edge. Huffing and snorting through ground teeth, he gripped with his hands, toes, elbows and chin to roll his whole body over the side. He greeted the road with the flat of his back, breathing hard.

  ‘Wha-?’ came the startled yelp, and the distinct sound of a person priming a gun to fire. William pulled his pistol from his waistband and rolled onto his side. The mouth of his flintlock found the open maw of a blunderbuss.

  ‘William?’ Goldin squinted to recognise him through his fresh coating of filth.

  ‘Goldin.’ William took a breath as a chill washed over him; now that the competition was underway, he realised the little man might actually shoot him. It seemed his friend had reached the same conclusion. So the pair remained with their guns towards each other, neither daring to move an inch.

  ‘What are you doing, sneaking up behind me like that?’

  ‘I didn’t realise I was sneaking up on anyone,’ William wheezed, but kept his aim true. ‘You’re not going to shoot me, are you?’

  ‘Depends.’ Goldin flicked his tongue to the corner of his mouth, somewhat reluctant in his manner. ‘Are you going to shoot me?’

  ‘I’d rather not.’ William let out a sharp gust of breath through clenched teeth that might have been a chuckle had he not been staring down the barrel of a blunderbuss. Slowly, he lowered his pistol, but kept his finger on the trigger for what good it would do him.

  ‘Likewise.’ Goldin sighed and lowered the muzzle. ‘How did you get from down there anyway? You’re not even wet; filthy, but not wet.’

  ‘I fell, but landed on a– I don’t know.’ William thought of the toilets suspended over the river some way up and wondered whether a vast accumulation of human waste could form an island like that. ‘Mud, I guess.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ Goldin commented. ‘My referee fell in the water and he didn’t seem to enjoy it that much.’

  ‘So did mine.’ William wondered whether the fate of Goldin’s referee had been more similar to his own than either of them would admit.

  ‘Awfully clumsy these referees.’ Goldin had a wry smile that all but confirmed William’s suspicions.

  With a dismissive snort, he leant his blunderbuss beside a rifle in the crux of the bridge siding and an upturned handcart he had been using for cover. He rolled his shoulders, shaking his bound sponsor off and dropped him to the floor. There were other things more important than the misadventures of the referees. ‘Where’s Vesta? Is she…’

  ‘Dead? I don’t know.’ William toyed with his pistol. ‘We got separated.’

  ‘I’m glad, I thought she’d died and you’d chosen to keep fighting.’ Goldin took a tin out from his pocket and opened it. ‘You’re no fool though, are you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ William watched as Goldin’s sponsor wriggled onto his side and tried to shuffle away.

  ‘No prize is worth staking your life on.’ He gathered a pinch of dried root from the tin and pushed it into the side of his cheek. There was a polite inclination that William could help himself, but it was declined with a wave of his hand. ‘When my sponsor dies, I’m done. I’ll try again next time. No point getting myself killed over a pipe-dream.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ William crawled to the upturned cart and peered through a crack. An assassin was knelt maybe forty feet away beside a sugared fennel stand, hidden from another assassin, but perfectly in view from Goldin’s vantage. ‘I’d better be getting back to Vesta, if she’s still alive. Keep myself in the running. Would you kill that assassin? He’s too far for a pistol.’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ Goldin stashed his tin back in his pocket and picked up his rifle. Standing on his tip toes he rested it on the edge of the handcart and took his aim. A shot echoed over the roadway and the assassin collapsed. Moments later a hole was punched in Goldin’s cover, showering him with splinters and making him fall onto his arse.

  ‘Damn that bloody woman!’ Goldin growled, tossing the rifle down in frustration. ‘She knows my sponsor’s not dead. It’s like she’s toying with me, I can’t even see where she’s shooting from. Think she’s trying to keep me pinned down.’

  ‘I need to get to Vesta.’ William tried to stand, but was forced down by one of Goldin’s strong hands.

  ‘No.’ He was stern. ‘You don’t know if Vesta’s still alive, but Genevieve probably does from her vantage. If you stand up now, with her eyes on us, and your sponsor happens to be dead already, you won’t be far behind.’

  ‘If I don’t go now she will be dead.’ William tried again, but Goldin gripped his shoulder tightly. ‘What are you doing? Let me go.’

  Goldin’s sponsor scrunched up like a worm and thrust forwards, edging ever-so-slightly further away from his captor. No sooner than his head left cover, it was blown from his shoulders. Blood fanned out across the stone slabs and his body fell limp and lifeless.

  ‘For Pity’s sake,’ Goldin harrumphed, galled at the inconvenience of his sponsors’ death. ‘I’m out. I’ll put up my hands and retire to the crowd. With any luck, that Genevieve’ll watch me go and you can slip out. Go save Vesta.’

  The little assassin jumped to his feet, his arms held high in the air.

  ‘My sponsor is dead!’ he bellowed, ‘I’m stepping out of the competition.’

  There were no shots and he didn’t immediately lose his head. Goldin breathed a sigh of relief and turned to go, offering William a final goodbye, ‘good luck, Will.’

  He set off walking then stopped, adding, ‘oh, and if Vesta is, you know, gone… just bow out. The gamble’s not worth it. We’ll have a drink when this is all done.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ William smiled, but as Goldin tramped away and became obscured by the swirling fog, so too did his smile fade.

  1675

  The young target’s townhouse was located with instructions written in the letter of engagement. The building was as white as most others, but as it was situated in one of the more affluent areas of the city, it bore a few distinguishing features. The windows were larger than the majority of the neighbours, crisscrossed with lead, and each of the upper panes bore a stained glass depiction of industry. A brilliant red front door boasted a polished brass knocker and handle, and beside, a black and gold plaque still bore the name and business accolades of the target’s deceased father.

  ‘I’ll go through the cellar window-’ William was dragged to a halt, his shirt caught in Ojo’s iron grip.

  ‘You can’t just walk in there,’ Ojo chided him with rare levity. He shook his head. ‘We wait. We observe.’

  William raised his eyes to the house and the distant shadows of servants moving inside. He supposed the middle of the day was not the best time to commit murder; Ojo was right about that.

  Anxious knots turned his gut; he had wanted to get the wretc
hed task done with as quickly as possible, so that he and Ojo might move on. A delay meant more time to think on the task ahead; he had lost enough sleep already, and knew it wasn’t the result of the cold or lack of a bed.

  They had slept in a hotel on the first night, but Ojo had quickly returned to his miserly ways and the following two were spent rough. It was all in aid of the task at hand, even if Ojo had saved extra funds to spend on his patron’s medicine. They had taken it in turns to rest, sleeping like vagrants in a small park near the target’s house, and observing the servant’s schedules.

  The closer William came to assassinating the young boy in the house, the more certain Ojo became that things would go wrong. He seemed to regret spending so much money on the night in the hotel and tried to recoup funds wherever he could. One evening they had scavenged scraps of stale bread and pastry from a nearby kitchen waste, the second they ate a rat that Ojo had caught scampering from a roadside drain. To reduce the chances of being seen with a small fire they waited until gone midnight to eat. The meat was soft inside and had a crunchy exterior, baked to near black to rid it of any lingering plague. William ate it for strength, but would have preferred to go without.

  Despite his discomfort, he had to admit that the meticulous observation was worth every moment. From only three days and two nights they had managed to piece together a regular routine in the building. Most of the servants would leave for home after dusk, leaving a skeleton staff to bank fires and lock doors. Around three hours later the lanterns on the top floor would be extinguished. Ojo surmised that this was the young master being put to bed by a minder or relative. Then, just before midnight, the front lanterns would be snuffed, and house cast in darkness.

  On the third evening Ojo disappeared leaving no other instruction than to wait. William wasn’t frightened that someone might see him alone on the bench, he could handle himself, and he had his pistol for emergencies; but he did fear that the assassin might never return.