The Man-Butcher Prize

by Charles X Cross

  ‘Oh, that sounds wonderful; and such delightful manners. A rarity in ladies of your tender age.’ He beamed in the presence of her educated and refined acknowledgement. ‘Your brother and I need to talk a little business; I do hope you can forgive our brief meeting?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Vesta racked her mind for any poison she could put in his tea at short notice, obviously she had nothing, unless he had an allergy to staveroot. It wasn’t worth it just to unsettle his stomach. So, she had to play the obedient servant and sister, then when she had the chance, stove his head in. ‘I’ll serve tea directly.’

  1682

  The two cultists stared silently.

  ‘So…’ William sipped his whiskey, letting the fiery liquor trickle over his tongue before swallowing. ‘I’m an assassin, not here for either of you mind. I’m in town to run for the Man-Butcher Prize. The only problem is: I don’t have a sponsor yet.’

  The two men shared a look, conferring in an unspoken code. William really hoped that they weren’t weighing up whether or not to shoot him. If one bullet was fired in anger in a place like this, he could see the whole saloon erupting into a furious brawl.

  ‘I was wondering…’ He twiddled his thumbs. ‘If either of you two gentlemen wanted the honour, or knew anyone who would be willing to become my sponsor?’

  The mute conversation came to a head. The right-hand man broke their silence, asking calmly, ‘how long have you been a guilder?’

  He had high cheekbones, which somehow made him look like he was the superior of the two, and a little scar just beneath his left eye. He kept a blank expression at all times, and when he moved for his drink William couldn’t help but notice the muscles beneath his thin shirt. There was certainly more to this cult than singing and flagellating.

  ‘Since I was eight,’ he said proudly, tugging his sleeve up to show the well-worn guild brand. ‘Trained by Ojo Azul himself.’

  The cultist’s face softened as much as his angular cheekbones would allow.

  ‘What do you go by? Might we have heard of you?’ the second cultist questioned. Stout, with a tightly curled beard, he seemed to have taken his title of Lamb to heart. ‘Do you have a proven track record? We wouldn’t want to back a beginner.’

  William's smile faltered. He was experienced, but his success rate of late wasn’t exactly glowing. This was where it all fell apart.

  ‘My name's William. I don’t need a flashy alias, I just let the quality of my work speak for itself.’ He leant forwards on his elbows. ‘You remember the Masquerade Killer; that high profile botch-job in Fairshore? The one where the mayor was killed by mistake.’

  The cultists nodded. It had been plastered across most of the imperial gutter-press tabloids, coinciding beautifully with an otherwise slow news week.

  ‘I was the one who killed him.’ William pulled his thumb across his throat. ‘I’d have done it even without the Fairshore revenge purse; can’t have an assassin bringing our kind into such disrepute. Don’t let my appearance fool you, I’ll take out anyone. Other assassins; men, women, it doesn’t bother me. Mark my words, I’m going to win the prize this year.’

  William was glad he had mastered the art of bullshitting years ago. The words tripped off his tongue far more glibly than the shameful truth.

  ‘Well. You do sound confident at least.’ The high-cheekboned cultist had a little smile across his face now. William couldn’t believe that they might actually take him up on his offer. ‘You’re painting yourself as quite the hitman; you can’t be entirely perfect, surely?’

  ‘No, obviously.’ William racked his mind for a believable untruth. ‘I’d have to say, I have the tendency to work too hard. I spend all my time moving from job to job and never really leave any time for myself. In a way, I’m just too dedicated.’

  Even William could tell that was too much.

  ‘It must be a lonely life, being an assassin.’ The stout one finished the last dregs of his beer, his otherwise stoic features now maudlin.

  ‘Tell me, are you a religious man?’ Cheekbones asked, scraping his small scar with a fingernail.

  ‘I never really looked into it.’

  ‘We can help you with a sponsor.’ Cheekbones reclined and flicked whatever dead skin he had managed to collect under his nail. ‘But we have conditions; are you interested to hear them?’

  ‘Yes,’ William answered a little too enthusiastically.

  ‘A few of our members are in the running for the prize already, our leader is keen to raise our profile, you see? And a win for our cause would do nicely.’ He ran his finger across the table top, underlining his plans. ‘All our assassins and sponsors can work together, there’s nothing in the rules against it. When our men are the only ones left, the sponsors will gladly give their lives for the Cause, and we will have our winner.’

  He drew out that last part, savouring it.

  ‘It would only increase our chances if we had a pairing with a proven guilder. We have more than enough members willing to act as sponsor for a fellow Lamb. What do you say?’

  William bit his lip. He’d pretended to be a choir boy for a job once, even attended a lecture on The New Gods to get close to a target. But he had never joined a cult before.

  ‘What exactly does it entail?’

  ‘There’s a simple initiation ceremony.’ Cheekbones had become positively friendly now. ‘And you’ll need to pay a tithe of sixty one silvers; then you’ll be a fully-fledged Sacrificial Lamb.’

  ‘Now, I know what you're thinking,’ the stout cultist interrupted before William could speak. ‘Being a Sacrificial Lamb does not mean that you’re going to be sacrificed. Check any dictionary, sacrificial just means relating to sacrifice. You won’t be killed necessarily, you’re just as likely to be the one doing the killing. Does that make sense?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ William was still focused on the tithe he couldn’t afford. It was a sure fire way to get not only a sponsor, but a bit of illicit cooperation. Several teams working as one had a far better chance to succeed. Then he only had to kill the other sponsors, who would be more than willing to take an early death, and he would be named Man-Butcher.

  ‘We'd be happy to have you as part of the team.’ Cheekbones offered a hand to shake. ‘How about it?’

  ‘Count me in.’ William took the cultist’s hand to seal the deal. ‘I’ll just need to get the tithe together.’

  ‘Excellent.’ The stout cultist stood and fixed William with a friendly grin. ‘Another drink, brother?’

  ‘Oh, yes please.’ William rubbed his hands together. The oppressive atmosphere in the saloon had gone, and everything seemed to be turning for the best. It was good to be a part of a family again.

  ‘We’ll have the ceremony in two days, you can bring the tithe with you then.’ Cheekbones was slightly more officious than his counterpart, though allowed himself the thinnest slice of a proud grin. ‘You've seen that impressive chapel on the hill? That’s ours. You'll be baptized there. I pray you look forward to it; it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.’

  William patted his hands merrily on the flanks of his trousers. He didn’t need Goldin or anybody else to guide him. He was an experienced killer and had easily negotiated the perfect deal on his first attempt. Now all he had to do was accrue the funds. That woman’s low-priced hit job should do it. Fifty silver she’d said, and two days would be ample time to kill off any idiot she might have cause to tangle with.

  Blackbile was an entirely different place at dusk. The ash that hung in the air during the day had settled to form a barrier over the churned mud, making it easier to get from place to place. Street lamps burned with an inviting orange hue, though the carnival atmosphere of the impending competition was subdued. Many of the tourists had retired to their accommodation for fear of increased crime rates through the night. Others were collected in and around the numerous taverns that seemed to appear in every fifth building. As such, the boardwalks had become impassable, so William had to trudge
in the road.

  He walked with his hands in his pockets to keep the chill wind at bay. He was headed to The Brazen Bull, a tavern on the outskirts of town, where he hoped to secure a private contract, and maybe cheap accommodation for the week. Goldin had opted to remain at Melting Moments, a place William wasn’t too keen on returning to, so they had said their goodbyes for the time being.

  A carriage thundered past at an alarming pace, making minimal effort to avoid him. Mud flecked his trousers and a lantern hanging from the siding clipped his arm. He spat a curse at the painful shock of it, and reached for his pistol. Taking his aim on the whorled decal on the back of the carriage, he assessed it to be owned by a fellow guilder. Black and gold filigree patterns adorned it in a tasteless show of wealth and the smell of incense trailed in its wake. It stung his nostrils with its potency, even from such a brief passing.

  He had hoped to fire a shot into the cab, but it was against guild rules to kill another assassin before the competition. He could at least take out the driver to inconvenience the guilder – and it had been the driver’s own carelessness that had clipped him. By the time he had reasoned himself into taking a shot, the cart was too far away; pulling the trigger would only waste what little ammunition he had. He cursed again and kicked a clod of mud.

  Thanks to the theft of his paltry belongings as he’d entered the town, he only had the two shots loaded in his pistols. Though he would only need one, it was best to save them both for his upcoming job. Especially considering his current run of luck. He tucked the pistol beneath his belt and continued for the tavern.

  As he walked a little further, he became aware of the cold wind on his arm. Blood came away with his fingers when he touched the affected area. He cursed the inconsiderate coachman and stomped to the side of the road. The edge of town was quieter than the centre, but there were still too many people passing for him to sit on the boardwalk.

  In between two shops was an alleyway lit with small lanterns; a freshly painted sign indicated the presence of a taproom therein. Two people came out that hadn’t been roughed up or robbed, so he felt safe enough to enter.

  Coming out of the other side, he found himself in a cobbled square. Squashed behind the shops was an edifice of wood and plaster spanning several floors. It looked to be undergoing some kind of renovation with bamboo scaffolding strapped to two of its three visible sides. He could see people upstairs through the open walls, drinking and laughing. Tourists by the look of them. It was one of the many venues where people would come to watch the carnage from a relatively safe vantage. Tonight it was just serving as a tavern.

  Inside, he could at least get himself a drink and clean up his arm before continuing to The Brazen Bull. He didn’t want a possible patron to see him bleed, it spoiled the illusion that he was somehow better than a mere civilian. It might even cause her to lower her offered price.

  A rifle toting guard eyed William’s pistols and grunted permission to enter, perhaps recognising him as a guilder. Within, a vast collection of mismatched chairs were occupied by lively tourists and deathly locals. Passing by one such catatonic reprobate, William slipped a dark jacket from the rear of his chair. Once he had stemmed the steady trickle of blood, he could easily hide it under a thick woollen sleeve.

  Finding no bar on the ground floor, he continued up a crooked staircase. Lanterns with stained velum panels – that cast colourful streaks up the cracked walls – cluttered every hook and nail in the first floor tap-room. The space was crowded, but the queue for the bar was mercifully short; most had already lost themselves to an ale or ether haze. He ordered a dram of whiskey and a shot of clear spirit, the latter was for his arm to prevent any rot catching in the wound. The former was for courage, should the cut oblige a stitch or two. He continued upstairs, in search of a quiet corner.

  The top floor was open, lacking any roof and the majority of its original walls; balconies constructed on the bamboo scaffolding expanded the space. A few tourists leant on the fencing, too busy enjoying the dour vista to pay William any mind.

  He found a quiet spot with a decent view of the chapel and sat with his legs over the edge. Under the clear light of the moon, he could see that his newly acquired jacket was not as dark or assassin-like as he had first thought, but a rather jaunty blue. Not at all adhesive when it came to sticking to the shadows.

  He peeled up the sleeve of his shirt. The wound was shallow and had almost stopped bleeding. It wouldn’t need stitching, but in a place as filthy as this – and a wearing a shirt so tarnished with old viscera – it wouldn’t do to be careless. He dipped his fingers in the clear spirit and rubbed them over the long cut. When he was satisfied the wound wouldn’t sour, he drank the dregs and started on his whiskey.

  There was a low rumble under the earth and the scaffolding shook against the side of the crumbled fort. A spume of ash belched from the mouth of the volcano. It would still be some time before the dark cloud and sulphurous stench fell upon the town, and it would probably make for another gloomy day tomorrow. For now at least, the air was clear and breathable.

  He sipped his whiskey and traced the roads. The main thoroughfares would be easy to memorise, there were only a few that spanned the whole length of the town. The maze of back alleys was another story. Amongst the crooked spires, lean-tos, and high vaulted slate roofs, it was impossible to tell where one road blended into another. They were the key to this whole competition; being able to dissolve into the side streets and reappear wherever could pay dividends for anyone capable.

  He became aware of a presence at his back. An ill-advised tourist with no sense of personal space, or another guilder ready to pester him. Either way, it deserved the withering sigh he let out as he turned.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here.’ The presence behind closed the gap and sat beside him. ‘I thought you’d be busy with your preparations.’

  It was the woman with the assassination contract. She cupped her mug of beer in both hands and looked out across the town. William opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t for a moment, too conscious of his bloodied arm. He saw her glance at it, perhaps even noticed her assessment of him change. This was exactly what he didn’t want to happen, but it would look too strange if he threw on his jacket now. The damage had been done.

  ‘This is part of it.’ His eyes followed the length of a middling sized road. ‘I have to plan; know the layout I’ll be fighting in.’

  He found a road that led directly to the market from the main square. That might be a good way to head once the competition started. The route was easy enough to remember and he could keep his ammunition stock filled from the marketeers’ stores. He changed his mind; it was too obvious, he wouldn’t want to be amongst the main thrust of competitors. It would be too easy to get accosted from behind.

  ‘I see.’ She sipped her beer. ‘So, sitting up here with a stiff drink is just one of the perks of the job?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I’m Vesta.’ She smiled, causing a little wrinkle on her nose.

  ‘William,’ he replied with similar enthusiasm. Despite seeking a contract for someone’s life, she was still the most innocent person he had spoken to in days, and that was nice. He actually found himself relaxing a little more in her company than when he had sat alone.

  ‘I asked a couple of other people if they’d be willing to take my job. I hope you don’t mind. You did refuse after all.’ She pursed her lips and pulled her dark green cloak tighter. ‘They were all about as interested as you. Still, there’s plenty more guilders to ask; unless you’ve reconsidered?’

  ‘I’ve thought about it.’ He kicked his legs idly to keep the wind from taking their warmth. ‘My day's preparations for the prize have gone better than expected, so I might have some time to spare for a job; I'd need paying upfront.’

  ‘Do you presume me that stupid?’ She adjusted the plait that skirted the side of her head and squinted against the breeze. ‘I’m not giving up my silver for a job that hasn’t been comple
ted. Not in a place like this. For all I know, you’ll take it and that’ll be the last I ever see of you.’

  ‘I’m not normally this honest with a client.’ William looked across at her; she was still focused towards the upper edge of town. ‘But I need that money for something important.’

  ‘Well, you'd better take the job and kill the target before then, because I’m not parting with a bronze bit until the deed is done.’ Her dark eyes were stern and cold despite being glassy from the harsh wind.

  William downed the last of his drink.

  ‘Fine. Tell me about your target.’ He gave in. She had the lion’s share of the bargaining power in this situation. In a town full of guilders, anyone intending to take out a contract was definitely in a buyer’s market. Still, he had to play a little hard to get. ‘If the job’s worth my while, we can come back to terms.’

  One of her cupped hands released from her mug and extended towards the town. ‘Do you see that building there?’

  William followed the path her finger made, to a spot on the hill where only one building stood prominent. His heart, which had once been buoyed by the fortuitous meeting, sank like a corpse weighed with stone. He uttered its name, ‘The Chapel of the Lambs.’

  ‘Yes.’ Vesta’s finger curled back. ‘There’s a man in there, I don’t know the name he goes by, but he should be easy enough to find. He is the leader of this Flock, and his face is scalded.’

  William's mind began to run through the possible outcomes for the predicament in which he found himself. If he was better at remaining unseen, there might have been the possibility he could have killed the scalded man and still joined the Lambs. But as it was, he couldn’t rely on himself to get the job done in secret, and he couldn’t just take the money and forget about the job; she was too wise for that. Perhaps if he told the Lambs about Vesta’s bounty on their leader, they might waive the joining fee, should he kill her instead.