Charles X. Cross
was born in Sheffield and spent his early years without much direction. With a misspent youth playing video games and tabletop RPGs he somehow fell into a career as an Engineer. After a brief sojourn in Barnsley, Charles and wife Jo moved to a quiet village in Nottinghamshire. Here, they hope to turn their love of writing into a full-time career. The Man-Butcher Prize is Charles’ first published novel and he hopes to release many more.
Acknowledgments
There are many people who have helped me along my writing journey and those that follow are key amongst them.
Thank you to Will Mullens for being my first ever beta reader. Thank you also to Thea Marler, Penny Greenwood, and Abigail Burrow for being my most thorough critics.
Without Cakamura Design to create stellar cover art and Azgaar who built an excellent map making tool, my book wouldn’t be anywhere near as polished as it has become.
Charles X. Cross
www.charlesxcross.com
This ebook edition 2020
Copyright © Charles X. Cross 2020
The right of Charles X. Cross to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, of transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any other form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Also printed and bound by Amazon KDP
A catalogue record is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-8380101-0-2
For Jo, without whom this wouldn’t have been possible.
Also by Charles X. Cross:
Crooked Empires: Vol 2 coming soon
Crooked Empires: Blood and Crystal
(An ongoing podcast available via www.charlesxcross.com
and popular podcast providers)
Contents
Part 1
1681
1672
1682
1672
1682
1673
Part 2
1671
1682
1673
1682
1674
1682
1674
1682
Part 3
1667
1682
1667
1682
1668
1682
1668
1682
1668
1682
1668
1682
Part 4
1674
1682
1675
1682
1675
1682
1675
1682
1676
1682
Part 1
1681
Despite the countless revellers, William located his patron in record time; it wasn’t difficult to spot her two-foot red wig studded with strawberries and a meringue fascinator. Even amongst the motley collection of masked gentry in their finest and most outlandish, she was unmissable. In contrast, William had opted for the more sober shades of his profession – plain brown and black linens to more easily cling to the shadows.
Sheltered in a conveniently placed arbour, close as lovers, she pressed him against her excessive hooped skirts, whispering with murderous intent.
‘That’s him.’ The patron, who William only knew as The Daughter, held out a slender finger, her excitement barely restrained. Strange, given that he would be killing a man in less than half an hour, and even more unusual because he could only assume the target was her own father. ‘The one with the pig mask.’
William peered into the courtyard, spying between fronds and trailing flowers that gathered around the arbour. The target was portly, and though his long tailed suit was of the highest grade, it pinched tight around his midriff. William wondered whether the suit was his own; if it had been borrowed it would explain the ill-fitting nature and prove the man not as wealthy as he projected. It was often the way of a contract killing; the target owed money.
‘In the judge’s wig?’ William asked his patron just as the man drifted behind a stem of blooming honeysuckle that obscured line of sight.
‘Pig mask over a pig face,’ was her only muttered response.
William didn’t think he was supposed to have caught that last part so kept his attention firmly on the target. He shifted his position, found the target’s wig and mask in the crowd, and tried to memorise every detail of sculpted pig. Everyone at the party was similarly disguised, and he didn’t want to make some amateurish blunder by killing the wrong man. The whole ‘masque’ was a bit of fun on the nobles’ part, but also aided more underhanded dealings, and William was sure he wasn’t the only one attending who would be breaking the law that night.
The target handed over a pair of tickets to a red jacketed guard, straightened his wig, and led his lady-guest through the large double doors. Even though his face was concealed by a porcelain mask, the rest of his attire was conspicuous enough to make him easily identifiable. The man was a renowned judge, and the wig he sported was the same one worn each day in court. Perhaps the gown draped over his evening wear was also judicial garb, but William didn’t know enough about such things to be sure. He stifled a grin; this job would catapult him through the ranks without breaking a sweat.
‘Here.’ The Daughter delved her hand into a velvet pouch to retrieve a fine lady’s wig, and a mask that may have been intended for a child from the size of it. ‘It’s all I could find at short notice.’
‘When you insisted on supplying the items required…’ William halted the admonition of his patron; her piercing green eyes hardened through the holes in her plain white mask. She was paying him an awful lot of money after all, and only those with the loftiest stations in the empire had leverage enough to take out a completely anonymous contract. It was best not to upset her.
‘I do love a challenge.’ He grinned confidently, donning the small mask. The rounded edges, that were supposed to reach his ears, pinched the skin at either side of his eyes. ‘And the weapon?’
William’s hand instinctively patted his hip where his flintlock usually rested. He felt naked without it, but it was safely stored in a guild outpost. He wouldn’t be without it for long; once paid he would retrieve it.
‘Don’t worry about that, it’s all sorted.’ One of her wide green eyes winked jovially. She tossed the wig over his head and pulled the powdered grey ringlets tight around the mask. ‘There, you can barely even tell. It just looks like you have a freakishly small head; the people here are far too highborn to even mention it.’
The Daughter discarded the velvet pouch between two pronounced tree roots, linked his arm, and led him out of the arbour into the courtyard proper. They weaved deftly between the boisterous crowds of party goers, those too irrelevant to be invited inside such a prestigious event. The tug at William’s arm reminded him just how keen this woman was to be getting on with the sombre deed. Perhaps this job paid so highly because it had been rejected by more esteemed members of The Assassins’ Guild, and he was the only one foolish enough to take it. He pushed negative thoughts away, they had no place in a killing.
‘What mask does your partner wear?’ William tried to quell his nerves with details; they had been over the pl
an twice already. The Daughter would get him past the guards and a potential pat-down, and then her associate would provide a tool with which to kill the target; a knife, garrotte or other such subtle weapon. If William got the target alone, he could strangle him, though it was far from his preferred method of working.
‘Don’t worry about my partner, he knows the plan even better than you do, I’d say. Remember, he’ll call you Francisco Asino, and once he gives you the weapon, look for me.’ She indicated her tall red wig. ‘I’ll stay close to the target so you can find him easily. Then, it’s all you.’
‘Right…’ William didn’t see the point in stating the obvious; pale and blonde, he didn’t look like he was from Conejo. At least he was familiar enough with the accent to approximate it should anyone talk to him.
They reached the building of austere white stone and imposing columns, halting at the end of a long red carpet that stretched from the open doors like a forked tongue. William could see inside to the light, warmth, and wine, and wished he could attend something like this, just once, without having to spoil everything with a spot of murder.
‘Francisco Asino and guest,’ The Daughter announced to the guard on the left, who unlike his companion, was wielding a clipboard and quill rather than sword and shield.
‘Mr Asino.’ He ran his finger down the parchment and nodded. ‘Welcome.’
William eyed the doormen for a moment longer, to ensure neither wore a firearm of any sort. Given their prevalence in the guild, William rarely saw security without one, but Fairshore was a long way from most of the contracted murder, and nobles did love their traditions. Polished breastplates, heavy conical helmets, and soft-soled shoes encumbered with huge rosettes were hardly suitable for serious guardsmen. The escape would be much easier; it was a blessing these men had been so archaically outfitted.
‘Thank you very much, gentlemen.’ William made his best attempt at imitating a Conejan accent, and bowed with a flourish so wild that his grey wig nearly slipped off. Though he had picked up a few accents from more worldly assassins and mentors, hearing it now he could tell Conejan was definitely one of his weakest.
The foyer was enormous, with high frescoed ceilings and two sweeping staircases leading to a viewing balcony above. Though the room was amongst the largest William had ever seen, it was made compact with the quantity of guests, waiters, and servants of every discipline. Two men barked laughter with the confidence only provided by extreme wealth, and a few women in frilly dresses tittered along obediently.
‘This way.’ The Daughter led him into another room like a mother leading a toddler. He would not have endured such treatment in normal circumstances, but mingling with the upper echelons was new to him. He resolved to trust her guidance, for the time being.
A multi-use auditorium spread out, sloping downwards to a wide stage. He had seen set-ups like it in various cities, rooms that could be used for a tea dance in the afternoon and dog fights in the evening. But, like the foyer, it was grander in scale than William could have imagined, and populated with even more outrageous costumes. A few guests sat talking in warmly lit alcoves of silk drapes and velvet cushions, but most watched the stage, where the host was bestowing awards on his fellow nobles.
The Daughter stopped for a time as if watching the acceptance speech being enthusiastically orated by the winner of the “Most Modest” award. William tried his best to look as if he was paying attention, while subtly searching for his target through the restrictive eye-holes in his undersized mask.
‘There he is.’ The Daughter indicated the target in a huddle of chatting nobles. ‘I’ll join their conversation, you mingle a little; my partner knows we’re here. Your weapon will be ready any minute, Francisco.’
With that, she unhooked herself from his arm and slithered away through the press. Out of his depth, alone in unfamiliar territory, William had been led every step of the way by his giddy patron. Instinct told him something wasn’t quite right. More reasonably, he assumed it was because he was used to taking charge. An assassination contract was often no more detailed than a name, and in some cases, a preferred method of despatch. The patron never assisted like this, but clearly The Daughter wanted a piece of the action. For the amount she was paying him, he shouldn’t complain. Besides, his good reputation would be almost guaranteed after tonight.
He sidled to the edge of the room, taking a glass of wine from a passing waiter’s tray; he drained it to settle his nerves. Even at the periphery, he was jostled by puffed sleeves and sharp elbows. He would have to wait for the judge to visit the restroom, there wouldn’t be anywhere else quiet enough to get the job done in secret.
‘Francisco Asino!’ a jubilant man bellowed above the general grumble of the crowd.
William stopped still. He had envisioned a quiet whisper in the ear, not to be announced to the entire party. Worse, it had been a summons from the host, prancing about on the stage.
‘Mr Asino, come and collect your award!’
William took a step, then faltered; there couldn’t be another Francisco Asino here, could there? The fox-masked host was staring right at him, pointing a gaudy staff of office so everyone assembled turned to watch.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Asino, has been voted…’ The man stood aside as his glamorous assistant wheeled a small tea trolley onto the stage. ‘The most likely to make the headlines!’
A wooden crate sat on top of the trolley, which looked conspicuously like something an arms dealer would use to ship their wares. William swallowed as the crowd parted, and he resumed his march, his feet feeling heavier with each step. He almost stumbled as he ascended to the stage.
‘We have a very special prize for you,’ the fox-host continued. ‘We know you’ll be leaving the country very shortly, so we didn’t want to weigh your baggage down with another trophy. Instead, we opted for something useful. Something you can use at this very party.’
William reached the side of the fox-host and thanked him in his pathetic Conejan impersonation. His fingers trembled over the box, rough planks clearly stamped with import marks. All eyes focused on him.
‘Make it count,’ the fox-host whispered, gleeful as his patron, and slipped into the curtained wings.
William cursed under his breath. Stuck on the spot, feeling entirely set up, there was only one thing he could do. He curled his fingers under the lid and levered the coarse wood open on squealing hinges.
The Daughter had taken on board his request for a garrotte or knife, but had put her own spin on things. What lay before him, nestled in straw, was a kind of double crossbow. The weapon was fine enough, almost as finely decorated as his pistol, but far from the subtle instrument of death he had requested. Two knife-tipped bolts protruded above the stirrup, linked together by a thin wire.
He looked up at the crowd. Only a few were turned away from him, his target amongst them, deep in humorous conversation. The Daughter was in the circle with the target, the main focus amongst their laughing huddle. She had swapped wigs with someone and was playing some kind of strange noble’s parlour game – a good distraction should William raise the crossbow. The judge’s focus was certainly held by whatever she was doing, so maybe her presence on the job wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
William’s fingers flexed over the crossbow. While it was the polar opposite of how he’d wanted this job to pan out, it wasn’t entirely a loss. There were lots of lunatics in the guild who garnered quite the positive reputation by publicly despatching their targets, and it was a fallow year after all. It was tradition to go a little over the top in a fallow year. He’d heard a mad bomber had blown up an entire bridge to take out a single target a few months back, and ever since then, her name was on the lips of everyone in the guild.
Perhaps this was just the thing he needed; a very public success to secure his name in the minds of any who sought a killer’s services.
He took up the crossbow and aimed it just below the judge’s wig – so the garrotte would slice o
ff his head in a shower of fame-bringing gore – and pulled the trigger.
It had been a long time since William visited Valiance. It was a fine city then, a beautiful white stone backdrop for dark memories. In subsequent years it had greyed, stained by smog that clung to the damp air. Burgeoning industry had established itself and become bloated, spilling the city out in slums across once green fields.
He reached the outskirts by early evening and rode hard to get past the poorest districts before dark. The horse he’d stolen didn’t seem to enjoy the change in surroundings, braying at the merest twitch. It was an old thing, accustomed to farm life, well away from thundering carriages and coal smoke. William wasn’t overly enamoured with the city either, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Once in the relative safety of the lamplight, he eased on the reins, slowing the horse to a trot to save its labouring lungs. He didn’t stop; there were eyes watching under worn hat-brims, and guild enemies everywhere. It was even possible a guild ally would confront him, given his recent history. He set a hand on his pistol for comfort, and so anyone watching knew he meant business.
The smell of smoke built as he passed through a new industrial district. Though he was familiar with the city, it had changed a lot, and there was no trace of the park he had expected to use as a landmark. He crossed a bridge spanning a stagnant pool and took the wider of two forking avenues. He didn’t recognize any of it. He considered stopping to ask someone for directions but the state of the townhouses made him reconsider. Such a disparity of wealth in a place made folk uneasy, too eager to raise their status, and all the more ready to con or steal.
The sky bled an icy drizzle, matching William’s sour mood with its poor outlook. He pulled a blanket from his pack and wrapped it around his shoulders, cursing his lack of suitable travelling gear. The loose knit wool didn’t provide much warmth and the cream tones were marred with faint blood flakes that even the most fervently scratching fingernail couldn’t free from the weave. He might have been more prepared, but had left Fairshore in a hurry and had made few excursions into civilisation since. The cities he’d braved were none too welcoming, but he hoped, despite initial appearances, Valiance would be different.
The Man-Butcher Prize Page 1