The Man-Butcher Prize

by Charles X Cross

  In a way, he preferred it here. There was no school, and he wasn’t caned for poor comprehension. Yet, deep inside, he still felt that lonesome pull for his mother’s happy face and the comfort of his father’s leading hand.

  ‘How's the stew coming?’ The journeyman hammered down the steep ladder-like steps into the galley. Too tall for below decks, the young man straightened as best he could, leaning over William like a well-meaning older brother. ‘This’ll be your last chance to impress. We make port tomorrow.’

  William responded by tossing another finished potato into the cooking pot. The initial shock of near-death three times over had waned, and the flap of skin on his forearm had healed to a red-pink smear, but he still couldn’t bring himself to speak.

  Though the journeyman had often been heard barking orders or reprimands at the sailors, he had been endlessly affable with William. He smiled widely, rolled up his coat sleeves, and sat on the nearest bench. Like many on the ship, he seemed to think William was simple, and even despite that, didn’t treat him like a beast of burden.

  ‘I wanted to come and speak to you before we reached port.’ The journeyman pulled a short dagger from his belt and started to peel a potato. ‘After our stop in the Silken Coast, we’re headed back to Thego. There’s a strict border there and they monitor all of the imports quite closely. Anyway, the long and short of it is, I’ve spoken to the captain and he says we can’t take you with us.’

  William dug a black eye from a tuber, then sliced the white flesh in half to add it to the others.

  ‘The Silken Coast isn’t exactly the nicest place in the world, but there is law there. You’ll be safe; looked after.’ The journeyman fidgeted uncomfortably. ‘I understand your position, I was there myself once…’

  The journeyman faltered at William’s continued lack of acknowledgement, as if it was all a waste of energy, and the time at sea had starved the boy’s brain.

  ‘I’m meeting with one of my master’s contacts to deliver an artefact. I’ll see if I can trade you to him as an apprentice. You’ll be free to earn your own wage then, like me, and perhaps one day you might become a master. Become your own man again.’ The merchant tossed his peeled potato into the pot and started on a carrot. ‘It’s not a bad life, I promise you that.’

  ‘Mr Basar?’ A bell tinkled overhead as the journeyman opened the door of a dingy pawn shop. He had a long, leather-bound package strapped to his back, and though he seemed to be suffering under the weight of it, he allowed William inside first.

  Echoing the cramped and cluttered city outside, the shop was overstocked and poorly arranged. In contrast, the place was eerily cold – where the sun had bathed the streets with relentless heat – and so dark one might think it was dusk. The only light eked from a few guttering candles and the grimy glass pane in the door.

  ‘Mr Basar, are you here?’ the journeyman repeated and unravelled a sand-beaten scarf from around his face.

  ‘I’m here.’ A hunched old man, leaning heavily on an ivory topped cane, shuffled from the back room through a bright cascade of hanging beads. ‘And who might you be? I was expecting to be dealing with Mr Goodrich in person.’

  ‘I’m his apprentice,’ the journeyman replied. ‘My master deemed the pair of you even; given the delivery of this.’

  He moved to the counter – a long lacquered table with an inset glass display. With considerable effort he hitched the rope off his shoulder, took the weight of the package in both hands, and set it carefully on the wooden top. ‘He won’t be dealing with you again.’

  ‘I see.’ The old man flexed his slender fingers over the bindings, then deftly loosed them. Leather and wool padding parted to reveal a stone sword, etched with runes, perhaps prised from the hands of a weathered statue. Some relic of a pillaged civilisation. Like the beads behind, the old man’s eyes glittered in the dim light. ‘He really has outdone himself. It’s truly a shame we won’t be doing any more business again in future.’

  The pawnbroker struggled the sword into both arms, his face a picture of pure exertion, and his back crooked under the weight. As he turned, there was a foul popping sound from one of his joints, but nothing gave way. Without a free hand for his cane, his progress to the back room was painfully slow. The animosity shared between him and the journeyman was made obvious even to young William, when help was neither offered nor requested. Moments later, he returned more thoughtfully, with his hands tucked deep in the pockets of his sun-bleached smoking jacket, as if the whole thing hadn’t been a showcase of an old man’s shortcomings. An errant strand of lint stuck to his forehead betrayed he had quickly mopped his brow.

  The journeyman puffed his chest out to look more important– or to lord his youth and status over the old trader – and nudged William closer to the counter.

  ‘I have a deal for you; should you be willing to listen. This boy. I found him amongst a lifeboat of dead slavers. I’d take him for my apprentice, but being only a journeyman myself, am prohibited. Thus, I need to offload him. He doesn’t speak – think he might have been through some trauma or had the sense stoved from him – but that sort of thing can make them very loyal. Especially given his age.’

  William tried not to listen. Though the merchant had made him swab the deck, haul pails, and peel potatoes, he had fed and watered him well. The man had even persisted in speaking to him, despite never getting a response. As such, William had come to admire him as more of an older brother than anything else, and hearing the merchant discuss him as a commodity sent shivers across his skin.

  ‘So what you’re telling me is, you haven’t paid for him, and you haven’t got any papers of ownership.’ The pawnbroker leaned over the counter to look down at the boy more closely.

  William averted his gaze, suddenly more interested in the shrunken heads, washing boards, and blunted training swords than the wart-nosed shopkeeper.

  ‘That means my buying of him won’t be without a peppering of risk on my part.’ Mr Basar shook his head apprehensively. ‘What if his parents come looking? I’ll be tossed in the dungeons and labelled a nonce for keeping a fair thing like that about these parts.’

  ‘You can see why I’m not that keen on keeping hold of him,’ the merchant chuckled. For an accredited journeyman, he really was a terrible negotiator.

  A wide smile spread across the wizened face of the pawnbroker. ‘I’ll tell you what: give me something in trade, and I’ll take the brat off your hands.’

  ‘You want me to pay you?’ the journeyman scoffed. ‘I’m not stupid. I know your ties. Even with his illegitimacy, you’ll be able to fetch a semi-decent price or get some convincing papers.’

  ‘What ties do you refer to exactly? Or are you just taking a punt, given that I own a back alley pawn shop?’ The broker slid a leather bound ledger from a shelf of crystal globes, shells, and lead shot.

  The journeyman said nothing.

  ‘A punt then. Young man, I admire your tenacity. Very well, I’ll deal with you, but I do run a reputable business, at least in the eyes of the taxers. You’ll have to trade me something so I can give you a little coin, or the books won’t balance.’

  ‘This is the only thing I have of any value,’ the journeyman grumbled and untucked the silver barrelled flintlock from under his belt. He set it on the counter and slid it over to the broker with a flourish. ‘Be careful, it’s loaded, I’ve been using it instead of my standard Gill Brothers’. It looks a little better, and perhaps performs a little better.’

  A shiver passed over William. The last time he’d seen that gun, he’d pointed it at the burnt wreck that had once been a man named Bennet. The etched flowers did little to disguise the true purpose of the thing.

  ‘I like it; a custom. Made by the younger Gill I’d wager.’ The broker turned it over in his hands and set it on the shelf behind him. ‘I have one of the elder Gill's myself.’

  He pulled a twin barrelled flintlock from inside his jacket and added, ‘the barrels are pinched to slow the bullet
and silence the shot. It allows me to do my business however I please; with little fear of governmental intervention.’

  Two gouts of smoke thrust from the flintlock and the journeyman's throat split. He toppled backwards and slumped against the door. The bell trilled a little, but nobody heard it, because – contrary to the pawnbroker’s claim – the gun clapped as loud as any other.

  William dashed to the fallen man, ignoring the ringing in his ears. Horrified, he watched the life pump from the journeyman’s gullet.

  ‘The older Gill was somewhat of a charlatan, I think you’ll agree,’ the pawnbroker sneered. ‘I’m glad you’ve brought me an example of his brother’s work; the younger Gill was always the master. Oh, and don’t worry about me and the boy, I pay my protection rights, so I highly doubt there’ll be any guards rushing this way.’

  The journeyman let out one last gurgle.

  However briefly William had known this man, he still felt sorrow over his death. He had been kind, and that had been something to treasure of late.

  ‘Maybe now your master will deign to speak with the likes of me,’ the broker said to the journeyman as if he hadn’t already perished. He took a draft of the smoke curling from the mouths of his pistol and turned his glower to William.

  ‘Well boy, you owe your allegiance to me now.’ He lifted the counter top on a squealing hinge and crept closer, sinking low to speak in a way he might have thought was more welcoming. His spine and knees clicked like the priming of his flintlock.

  William clutched himself into the corner wishing for home and for all of this to be over.

  ‘Do a good job and I won’t sell you into the sex trade, understand?’

  William nodded slowly.

  ‘How are you at digging boy?’ The broker snatched at his skinny arms, testing the strength of childish muscles. ‘What about carving meat? We need to get rid of your previous owner, or the both of us will be for the long drop. What do you say? Will you help an old man?’

  1682

  Nestled rather conspicuously between tumbledown shacks, was a luxurious guild-owned hotel. Painted blood red with white supports and window frames, it stood out vibrantly against the greys and browns of the ash-choked streets. If William’s last three jobs had gone well, he might have opted to stay in such a place, but it was most certainly not amongst his current options.

  As he neared the hotel, the flow of tourists slowed. He could see that a large crowd had formed to watch the opulent doors – set back from the road at the top of red carpeted stairs – and were in danger of clogging the entire street. While he was interested in what might have drawn so much attention, he didn’t want to be late for the ceremony, so pushed his way forwards between gawping commoners.

  ‘It’s him!’ one of the podgy spectators screamed, drawing the attention of nearly everyone in the vicinity.

  For a brief moment, William thought he had been recognised, even through the mud, blood, and ash. He gritted his teeth, swallowed a curse, and turned to greet whoever might have spotted him. Then he saw the hotel doors had been opened wide by liveried bellhops, and a very familiar man stepped from within.

  The prize champion of seventy-six, Ojo Azul, seemed to glide through the hotel doors, and took each step down to the boardwalk as though he were a king greeting his subjects.

  William stopped, mouth slackening. Ojo had been dead for years; a legend murdered for the glory of besting a prize-winner. Though so many claimed to have been the one to do it, finding the true culprit had been impossible. William had believed the stories in principle. Nobody had seen the man in nearly a decade; but there he was, very much alive – a little older, silver stripes cutting through oiled black hair – no mistaking him.

  ‘Azul! Azul!’ William called and waved his arms in the air, but his attempts were smothered in the adulations of the crowd. ‘Ojo, it’s me; William!’

  He charged into the throng, weaving between sweaty bodies, bony angles, and unknown fleshy pouches. Nails clawed at his skin to prevent his progress, but he was stronger and more resilient than his slight frame would suggest. Each body in the gaggle was circumvented by either force, dexterity, or a swift jab of his elbow, and soon he was at the forefront of the press.

  Ojo was facing the other way, distracted by his adoring fans. A few gave him gifts, which he passed on to a clutch of guardsmen who had followed him into the street. Others wanted his signature as proof of having met him. Some slipped him papers scrawled with the details of potential hit jobs. They might have been intended for the winner of this year’s competition, but it wasn’t every day the opportunity arose to employ a living legend to despatch one’s enemies.

  ‘Ojo, it’s William.’ His voice was drowned in the crowd. He tried to get closer, to reach out and touch him on the shoulder.

  A bodyguard rapped the back of his hand with a gauntleted fist and grumbled something under the crowd’s furore that might have been “keep your distance”, or something less polite.

  ‘I’m an old friend,’ William mouthed overtly in the hopes that he might relay his message despite the growing cheers in the gathering.

  The guard didn’t seem to buy it, instead resting his hand on his sword.

  A horse drawn carriage thrust its way into the horde and Ojo Azul began to make his way towards it.

  ‘Ojo!’ William shouted one last time.

  He didn’t know if he had been heard, or whether chance had favoured him, but as Ojo stopped to greet a few fans he spotted William. His eyes were still as sky-bright as ever, offset against the terracotta tones of his skin. He stepped forwards and held out his hand to shake. William took it with gusto, spouting a garbled memoir about everything that happened since they’d last met, and interrupting himself with how good it was to finally see the old killer again. It didn’t matter that most of it, if not all, was lost under the thrum of the growing crowd; William was too excited to stop himself. He had been alone for too long.

  Ojo released his grip, reached into the pocket of his black silk jacket – embroidered with silver snakes on the lapels – and pulled out a card. A palm was held out to an assistant and quickly filled with an ink-charged fountain pen. The whole display looked well-rehearsed, but everything always had with Ojo. He scratched a message on the card and handed it to William, then gathered his guards around him and swept away.

  Bewildered and exuberant, William couldn’t take his eyes off the old assassin until he had been whisked into his carriage and disappeared down the road. In the rush of emotion he had paid little attention to the card clutched in his hands, and when he looked down, was stunned by the elegance of it. Thick, bleached-white card; expensive. The ink was so rich and black it could only be imported from the Amaris Isles.

  For my favourite fanatic.

  I invoke the gods’ blessing.

  Ojo Azul

  William’s smile faltered, he had expected an invitation to dinner – or at least a drink – and had been left with platitudes.

  The flow of tourists resumed towards the square. As the crowd shifted, he noticed a few people cradling similar cards. At first he thought nothing of it, but when he heard one greasy teen boasting about the worth of a prize winner’s signature, the realisation hit him like a rifle butt to the face. Ojo had taken him as a fan. He crumpled the card and stuffed it into his pocket.

  The bitterly familiar swell of loneliness filled his chest. How did Ojo not recognise him? It didn’t make sense. He thought about it as he walked, trying to explain away the hurt at being snubbed. Eventually, he reached the conclusion that, in the eight years since Ojo last saw him, he had changed an awful lot. Puberty had stretched him out and peppered his chin with sparse stubble. He would barely resemble his nine year old self, so Ojo hadn’t rejected him on purpose. He could still remake the connection, they just needed time to speak, without the noise of the crowd.

  The press eased a little as the roadway opened into a grand square. Although William had never been there, he knew from paintings that t
he layout was reminiscent of the senate courtyard in Vitale. Yet here in Blackbile, the buildings were crooked and constructed nearly exclusively from grey knotted wood. The town hall was the most notable exception, a huge edifice of red-brick and volcanic rock topped with a large dome.

  High wooden bleachers had been erected, festooned with ribbons and crowded with spectators eager to see the opening ceremony. At the far end of the square, at the foot of the steps to the imposing hall, was a stage and lectern. Officials were bustling about making last minute preparations. He squinted to make out the prize committee, and although he was too far away, imagined he could see the wild hair of the mayor and the sweeping robe of the Amarian Swordmistress.

  He forced his way through the press, avoiding hawkers of cat meat and hot cider, squeezing around voluminous skirts, torch bearers, and all kinds of folk. Finally, he halted at the edge of a threadbare carpet. The centre of the square had been reserved for guild members only, hemmed in by frayed velvet ropes. Queasy, anxious, and brimming with excitement, William took his first step towards victory. As his foot came down, he pictured himself winning the prize, and could almost hear the crowd chanting his name already.

  ‘Not so fast there.’ One of two guardsmen – who William had initially taken for loitering guilders – held a palm out to stop him. ‘Only guild members beyond this point.’

  William looked the pair up and down, gauging whether they posed much of a threat. There was a chance they were confidence tricksters or thieves, but their uniforms looked shabby enough to be genuine. Real guards then, but whether they intended a shake-down was not yet determined. Their muskets were hanging casually enough on straps, but the shiny bayonets, and the board, parchment, and brass-nibbed pen intimated business was meant.

  ‘I am a guild member?’ William tried, just as surprised as he was relieved that neither of the men seemed to recognise him. While he was by no means as famous as some of the guilders here, he was as infamous as any of them.