William was too tense to form words.
‘Is it vegetables?’
He nodded.
‘What about a little piece of meat; every now and then?’
Another nod.
‘Those things you eat, even the plants, they’re all living things. You took away their lives, so you could continue your own. It’s a simple fact of the world: life feeds on death.’ Ojo stood and took a few steps away from the bleeding broker. ‘And right now, to continue with your life, you need to take it from this man. He won’t continue to feed you once I leave. I daresay he’ll reload that gun and shoot you with it.’
William recalled the journeyman, and the captain. Hot and cold blood, unmarked graves. He would not be buried with those men.
‘Life feeds on death,’ Ojo repeated his mantra.
William squeezed the trigger. The pistol clapped and bucked in his weak hands. A ball of steaming lead careened across the room and punctured the broker’s chest. He screamed a spray of blood; another slack tooth slipped free of its sinew.
‘Not the best shot I’ve seen,’ Ojo commented. ‘Looks like you’ve punctured his lung. He might survive for a few hours, but no physician in the Silken Coast will have the skills he needs. Death within the next twenty four is inevitable.’
William lowered the flintlock, still quivering, but unable to divert his gaze from the painting of pure dread across the face of the broker. All the pain Basar had put him through was at an end.
‘I imagine it’s only a matter of time before somebody comes to investigate.’ Ojo picked up the hessian bundle and cast a quick glance William’s way. ‘You should leave.’
William’s triumph was short lived. Ojo was right, the heavily bribed town guard would eventually pay a call on the pawnshop, and there was no telling what they’d do to a murderous slave like William. Once more, his chance at freedom was snatched away. Yet through the tumult of exhilaration and panic, one thought rang clear; meeting the Conejan assassin was a chance at a different kind of life all together.
William’s mind was made up. No-one told Mr Azul what to do and he wanted to be just the same. He cleared his throat, feeling a crackling pain in his gullet as he worked dormant muscles. He fixed the assassin with glassy eyes and shuddered out his cry for help, ‘take me with you?’
‘It’s not an easy life being a killer.’ Ojo turned to go, but even as he did so, a change of heart became evident in his expression. ‘But you’ve obviously got a talent for it, and I could make use of an apprentice.’
Part 2
1671
Mr Ruth wasn’t an imposing man. His sallow cheeks, weak chin, and pallid complexion made him appear sickly and pathetic. Vesta would have felt sorry for him, would have taken him for a vagrant, had he not worn the most expensive attire and inspired the most primal fear in her. It wasn’t from any might or threats on his part, but the lack thereof. His eyes were like deep wells; dark and cold. So once the deal between him and her father was done, it was a relief to see the back of him.
She had almost completely forgotten him, when a letter – bearing none of the marks of the postal service – arrived in early spring. She was eating brunch with her father when the butler brought in the morning’s deliveries. They had been talking about her schooling, and while she took a moment to drink some freshly pressed orange, her father leafed through the envelopes. As the first few beads of sweat began to coalesce on his brow and his cheeks lost their usual rosy lustre, Vesta knew Ruth would return.
‘Jane,’ Vesta’s father called for the help. He knew all their maids by the same name, and somehow they could always tell which one he meant. ‘Take Vesta to her rooms.’
The left hand maid bobbed a curtsy from her position near the sideboard. Vesta didn’t want to go with her, she wanted to know what was happening and somehow help her father, but his stern expression and refusal to meet her gaze brooked no room for protest. Obediently, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, mentally damning him for folding the letter away as she approached, and allowed herself to be led upstairs.
When her chamber door clicked shut behind her, Vesta attended her dolls as would be expected, arranging their dresses and braiding their fine hair, all the while listening to the house and the street below. It wasn’t long until the shrill and insistent doorbell echoed down the landing. She set down Zabal, a culturally insensitive doll her mother gifted before she was taken by the illness.
The small china cup in front of the tanned native figure was filled with imaginary tea, and Vesta kissed its forehead before preparing to leave. She popped the buttons on her white day dress and petticoats, and wriggled out of them. Then, dropping to her belly in lace frilled bloomers and chemise, she crawled beneath her enormous bed to retrieve a pair of her brother’s trousers – pilfered and stashed for an occasion such as this. Coupled with her faun spencer, Vesta felt quite dashing in the black trousers, even if the crotch was stuffed with her voluminous bloomers.
She moved to the door, conscious that if she was caught disobeying her father, she might feel his birch switch across her legs. He had disciplined her brother that way many times, but until now she had never been so wilful. She eased the cut-crystal door handle clockwise. The mechanism gave easily, oiled meticulously by one of the Janes. The door opened a crack, scuffing against the lush carpet. She had never much noticed before, but now she was trying to be silent, the sound seemed to carry as clearly as the front bell.
Sliding through the narrow gap, she guided the door back into the frame even more slowly than she’d opened it. She could hear a maid now, three rooms down, wafting the wrinkles from bed sheets and folding them with lavender.
Vesta crept away from the door; off the bare floorboards and onto the eastern carpet that ran the length of the hallway, hoping it would dampen her footsteps. Jane was too busy in her task to notice her hurrying by.
As the corridor opened to the upper landing of the entrance hall, she risked a peek over the wooden handrail. Below the grand chandelier – stocked with beeswax candles ready for evening – her father and the butler were discussing in hushed tones. Her father had the look of a man heading to the gallows. She had seen that once. Not the hanging of course, that would have been lewd for a refined young lady, but she had caught sight of a man being led to the square. From her distance on the first floor, she could see her father had the same dogged look. She slinked away from her vantage, lest she be caught spying, and listened to their exchange.
‘He awaits you in the study, sir.’
‘Yes. Good. Thankyou.’ There was a tremble in her father’s voice.
‘Shall I return with a little tipple, sir?’
‘Please.’
The pair parted, and once Vesta heard them leave the hall, she hurried to the staircase and padded down. She hadn’t really considered where she was going from here; she couldn’t likely get into the study without being seen. Hearing a noise from upstairs she was compelled forwards. She dashed across the lacquered floor and skidded to a trio of sofas that had been arranged to form a square with the carved hearth. She ducked and waited for someone to shout out; nobody did.
If she could find a way through the kitchens, she could sequester herself into one of the seldom used service doors that were the fashion when the place was built. They were designed to conceal the help, but also allow them to hear when they were being called; she couldn’t think of a better place to eavesdrop.
The butler emerged from the kitchen pushing a trolley topped with a pristine white cloth, ornate cut glasses, and a matching decanter. As the door swung shut behind him, she noted the clatter of pans – the cook had arrived early. Sneaking through the kitchen wasn’t as good an idea as she had thought.
The butler made slow progress while she reconsidered her plan. She didn’t worry about him spotting her; he was old, hard of hearing, and near blind. A second idea started to form, a little more risky perhaps, but certainly more direct. Underneath the cloth on the butler’s trolley, there was a s
helf of just the right dimensions to successfully contain a person of Vesta’s size. If she could make a distraction and slither under the cover, that would be the best way into the study. It was decided.
There was little to hand. The small reception table – usually hosting a folded paper or forgotten pamphlet – was frustratingly empty. The pot plants had been removed by the scullery Jane that very morning to be re-potted. The house cat – that she might have riled up and sent the butler’s way – was sleeping soundly in a sunbeam at the far side of the room. She cursed under her breath. The man may not have the best eyesight, but she couldn’t risk leaving the safety between the sofas, and there was little time remaining.
She looked to the hearth. It was one of the few fires in the house that seldom went out; an insistence of her departed mother. Vesta hoped to toss a poker or ash-brush across the room, but all the implements had been removed for polishing. She damned the god of spring and its edict for cleanliness. The only thing to hand was a small bit of stick that had fallen from the grate. It was maybe two inches round and six long, smouldering a little at one end; a few taps against the hearth-side took care of that. She held it by the uncharred end and weighed it in her hand. Not that heavy; she could toss it without causing too much damage.
The butler had nearly shuffled all the way to the study door; she had to act quickly. Without putting too much thought into it, she hurled the stick in the direction of the front entrance. It landed on the highly lacquered boards with a thump and skimmed to a tall window, slipping under the folds of a heavy curtain. The butler jumped and winced at a twinge in his back, turned towards the door with a scowl, and directed his ear for the sound. He left the trolley to investigate, approaching the likewise disgruntled cat.
Vesta smirked and scuttled for the trolley. The butler had moved all the way to the front door and was peering out to the gardens, grumbling. She lifted one side of the cloth, grateful the shelf was empty, and bundled herself underneath. With a few deft flicks she settled the cloth back into position.
The butler muttered something about stupid children, dismissing the noise as a pebble on the window, or a game of knock-and-run. Aside from Vesta and her brother, he was of the opinion that all children, especially those of the working classes, should be sent to the work houses. Many times he had advocated to Vesta’s father that anyone without the intelligence to enjoy an Arabella Flatt operetta should be sterilised, as if an artist could in any way make that happen.
Aged hands clamped onto the trolley and began to push. The difference in weight was considerable, but the wheels, like all moving parts in the house, were well cared for; and the butler seemed to presume that the increased effort required was the result of his recently twisted back. Vesta clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from giggling, the excitement of her infiltration momentarily outweighing the worry for her father.
The cart stopped suddenly. She tensed herself ready for the cloth to be pulled aside. Then the butler knocked on the study door.
‘Refreshments for you sir,’ he called out in an exceptionally posh accent that was not at all his own.
‘Bring them in,’ Vesta’s father replied through thick mahogany.
The door swung open and Vesta was pushed inside. She closed her eyes and tried to feel the motion to determine where exactly in the study she was being pushed to. A slight right turn behind the armchair, another small swerve to the right; that must have been to avoid the globe.
The trolley slowed before colliding with something hollow and wooden. The drinks cabinet, she was fairly certain. It was empty; any liquor had been moved to the kitchens after her father realised he had a problem with drink. Not that it caused him to consume any less. If anything, it meant that if he wanted a drink, no matter where he was in the house, all he had to do was trill a service bell.
‘Thank you so much Leighton.’ Her father moved towards the trolley, his leg brushed the draping cloth, almost making contact with Vesta’s shoulder. ‘Leave us, please. I’ll pour.’
‘As you wish, sir.’ Leighton’s shoes shuffled away. The door closed.
‘Would you like one?’ Vesta’s father removed the stopper from the decanter and started to glug the contents into one of the glasses.
‘No, thank you.’ Mr Ruth had a nasal aspect to his voice that matched his sickly visage. Vesta knew it to be him, even without seeing him. ‘But by all means, you help yourself – now, where was I?
‘My wife. She goes away, right?’ Leather creaked as he made himself comfortable in one of the wing-backed chairs. ‘And for once I can do what I want, have a drunken evening with my colleagues. Anyway, I kiss this whore. That’s all, just a kiss.’
Vesta heard her father swallow. He poured another dram.
‘And I don’t know how, but my wife finds out. Comes straight home. You’ve never seen anything like it; all my things were in the street. But in my house, she’s the boss. Now my wings are clipped, I have to accept that; no more nights out. I’ve stopped drinking altogether – my own decision – so I don’t get myself into trouble again.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Vesta’s father interrupted. ‘Why exactly are you here? I finished the painting for your associate; is he not happy with it?’
‘Of course he is, he loves it.’ The carpet shushed Ruth’s feet as he stood up. ‘My associate, he’s a good man for the most part, but like my wife, he’s also jealous and over-protective. He wants his portrait to be the only one in our community; unique. So when he heard you’ve been speaking with some of our business rivals, well, he was not very happy at all.’
Vesta couldn’t resist anymore, she had to see what was happening. Gently, she lifted the cloth and peered through a gap in the folds. Her father was stood on the other side of the sofa, she could just see his upper half.
‘I haven’t committed to paint anything yet.’
‘Sometimes, a kiss is as bad as a fuck.’ There was a clicking sound; she could only see Ruth’s back – the tailored jacket and patter of dandruff on the shoulders.
She saw her father’s eyes widen. Then the visitor lunged at him, and dragged him out of view. Expensive fabrics tore, men grunted and struggled. Laboured breath whistled through flared nostrils. Her father staggered onto the sofa, but Ruth was atop him in an instant. A knife flashed in his hand. They wrestled, but Ruth had a wiry strength, and soon had her father’s hand pinned to the back rest. The blade pressed to his knuckles.
‘And sometimes wings must be clipped,’ Mr Ruth hissed through a feral grin.
Her father could only look away; at that moment, his gaze met Vesta’s.
The knife pressed down, and sharp steel bit deep into flesh and bone. He buried his face into the leather cushion to spare Vesta his anguish; the blood curdling cries betrayed his intentions.
Petrified, tears breaching the dams of her eyelids, she could never have imagined something so horrendous could happen, but as her mother had always said “misery multiplies”. A shout came from the hall, muffled at first, but as the call was repeated, Vesta began to make it out.
‘Fire!’ The butler burst into the study, and paused as his rheumy eyes made sense of the blood. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Thank you once again for your most excellent painting.’ Mr Ruth pushed to his feet, cleaned his knife with a handkerchief produced from his pocket, and made for the door. His footsteps were steady and relaxed as he weaved around the butler and headed out past the glowing blaze.
Vesta’s father propped himself up, crimson drool trailed from his lip; in the struggle he had bitten his tongue. He held up his hand and studied it, his face a picture of confusion and shock. Though his thumb and little finger were intact, his first two fingers were gone, and his ring finger – adorned with both his and his late wife's wedding bands – was only held on by a sinew. In a daze, he attempted to straighten it, but only managed to twist off the anchoring spindle of skin. It fell into his cupped palm; he pocketed it.
Vesta emerged from her hiding plac
e and shouted for her father to move. The glow from the hall was brighter by the second and the acrid smell was becoming too hard to bear. He was too numbed to obey. She called to the butler, but he had succumbed to a fit of coughing. Smoke was billowing under the lintel.
With her father delirious, she knew there was only one cure. Her hand clenched and she swung with all her might. Father grunted; the sliver of tongue, that had only been partially severed moments before, slipped from cherry stained lips. She recoiled, caught in indecision, too horrified to know what to do. The fumes caught in her throat.
‘Sir?’ one of the footmen called from the doorway. He had a torn cloth over his mouth and smoke blackened skin. ‘Sir, we need to get out of here.’
It was impossible to tell whether it was the build-up of smoke in her lungs or the relief that somebody had come to help, but Vesta became very dizzy. As she staggered, her father, numbly aware of the danger, reached out to stop her collapsing. His hand grasped without fingers.
Her head cracked against the trolley.
1682
Although the last of the opening ceremony’s fireworks had finished and all members of the committee had adjourned inside the town hall, many of the spectators remained in the square. The tourists had turned to food and alcohol, making the periphery a hotbed of noise, music, fighting, and vomiting. While some of the guilders had opted to join the merriment, many stayed within the bounds of the red carpet, mingling with old friends and allies.
Goldin, Genevieve, Dr Barber and the old woman had formed into a little group; each discussing their plans for passing the time over the coming week, and what exactly they would do if they won the prize. William was there too, but he hadn’t been paying all that much attention and had lost the flow of the conversation. Instead, he was plotting and panicking in equal measure; concerned for his lack of a sponsor.
Caring little that he was interrupting the old woman mid-sentence, he turned to Genevieve and blurted, ‘have you got a sponsor?’
The Man-Butcher Prize Page 8