The Man-Butcher Prize

by Charles X Cross

His options all seemed so against the principals of the guild, but he had already been blacklisted, and this job was his own. Their rules of conduct no longer applied to him. He could just as easily surrender her to the cult and reap all the rewards. There was one major sticking point; his conscience tugged at him ever so harshly for even considering it. And more reasonably, he wouldn’t likely earn his way onto the whitelist with forbidden tactics. If he was doing this, he had to stand by his patron, and do it right.

  ‘Well,’ he started speaking before he had fully straightened everything out in his head, ‘I can take the job, but you’ll need to trust me, and I need the silver first.’

  Vesta shook her head and started to stand.

  ‘Wait.’ William put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Just listen to what I have to say; I’m not out to con you.’

  ‘Two minutes.’

  ‘The best way into that chapel is through the front door.’ He pulled his legs up from the cold abyss and crossed them beneath him as he shuffled around to face her. ‘If I can pay their tithe and become a member, I will have every opportunity to kill this scalded man. But I need the money to do that. Your money. Upfront.’

  ‘What’s in it for you then?’ She seemed somewhat interested in the prospect now. ‘You want to spend your fee and come out at the end with nothing?’

  ‘Well…’ William wondered exactly how much truth to let slip. ‘I’ve heard the Lambs are going to work together in the competition; if I’m part of their ranks, my chances increase significantly. I’ll make the assassination look like an accident, nobody will be any the wiser, and I get the support I need.’

  ‘Do you have much experience with that?’ she probed, doubtfully.

  ‘I like to think improvisation is one of my strong points.’ A little honesty wouldn’t do any harm. ‘And, given your pitiful fee, I’m the only person you can afford.’

  ‘You can have your tithe.’ She offered her hand to shake. ‘But I’m going with you. I need to see this job done right.’

  William had been stung by this before. The only reason his last job had gone so shamelessly awry was because he had allowed The Daughter so much control. Then again, as he was Vesta’s only option, she was his.

  He grasped her hand and shook.

  1674

  ‘Is there somewhere more private?’ Mr Ruth indicated to the hallway door.

  ‘We can talk here. My sister has a good idea of what I do.’ Aiden sat on a padded chair at the kitchen table, allowing the visitor to sit on the recently polished settle.

  ‘Excellent.’ Ruth rubbed his hands together and sat. ‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, young man. Your work ethic is beyond comparison.’

  ‘I have my sister to keep, and our father. We’ve lost so much, and I’m hoping, one day, we can reclaim it. So we all put in our fair share of hard work.’

  ‘Never a better word said.’

  Every time he spoke, Ruth’s nasal tone tensed Vesta’s muscles. She spilled a little as she filled the plain but serviceable teapot. Soon, she thought; she just had to get behind him with a knife or paperweight. Something that would finish the job before her brother had time to react.

  ‘You’re a military boy aren’t you?’

  ‘I would have been.’ The regret was thick in Aiden’s voice. ‘I went through most of the basic training, but had to leave to attend my family duties. That earned me a dishonourable discharge, so there’s no going back.’

  ‘Yes. That must sting; but don’t fret. The skills you acquired, even in the brief stint you had in training, will pay off in your new line of work.’ Ruth’s friendly tone was disarming; he had never been anything but hostile before.

  Vesta’s last memory of him kept repeating in her head; the tormented scream from her father pushed through the upholstery, Ruth’s gritted teeth as he pressed on the back of the blade.

  ‘I hope so.’ Aiden nodded sagely.

  Vesta loaded a tray with two cake slices and neat second-hand china teacups, with the pot in pride-of-place. She approached the talking men and set the tray on the table. As she had seen the Janes do, she poured two measures of lemon tea with delicacy, taking care to poise her index finger just-so on the pot lid. Manners dictated that the guest was always given the more generous portion, and once she had served them both, she retreated with the empty tray to the stove side. Granted, she was somewhat regretful that she hadn’t just tossed the steaming beverage in the man’s face.

  ‘Delicious,’ Mr Ruth called over with his mouth full of cake.

  Vesta thanked him as genuinely as she could manage. Now they were distracted eating she might have a better chance to slip behind the unwanted visitor unawares. Walking across the kitchen with a knife was too obvious and there wasn’t a sensible route that saw her pass behind the man.

  Perhaps if she went up to her father’s room then out the front door, she could use the guise of fetching his empty bottles for the rubbish bin outside, then smash one over Ruth’s head and stick the shards in his throat.

  ‘I’ve been in discussions with my associate, and he wants to grow the business. Thus, we need more people like yourself.’ Ruth swilled down the cake he had been mincing with a gulp of lemon tea. ‘Many people are reluctant to join an organisation like our own. In order to truly expand, we must shift ourselves into a better light in the eyes of the public.

  ‘Part of that will come from bright young men, like yourself.’ He took another large bite of his cake, disregarding the supplied fork. He had almost completely finished it, despite talking the entire time. Another facet to his disgusting character. ‘I want you off the night work, for something more… public facing.’

  ‘What do I need to do?’ Aiden set his plate to the side, his cake untouched. It was unlike him, but when faced with a potential promotion, and such a blatant display of gluttony by his superior, Vesta couldn’t say she blamed him.

  ‘Recruiting. Inspiring the youth. Making yourself a beacon in the community. It’s a lot cleaner work than your current role, and you’ll be remunerated handsomely.’ Ruth slid his empty plate underneath Aiden’s. ‘Plus a charge account at Monsieur le Classe, so you’ll look the part. It’s one step closer back to that life you’ve been craving.’

  Vesta was itching to move for her father’s bedroom, to set her plan into motion, but her greed was stopping her. Everything Mr Ruth was saying was music to her ears; better hours for her brother, more money. It might even entail a new wardrobe for herself. She longed for a return to the way things were even more than her brother did.

  ‘This all sounds… incredible.’ Aiden’s eyes shimmered with hope for the first time in recent memory.

  Vesta heard the unmistakable scuff of boots on the door mat, then the front door slammed. There was a knock against the wall as the coat rack was nearly toppled; footsteps shuffled across the little hallway. Her father had come home early. A sudden glut of dread swelled in her stomach. She wanted to dash across the room and bar the door, to stop him stumbling in and coming face to face with the man who had taken so much.

  ‘I’m back for more coin.’ Father pushed through the door from the hallway, his drunken eye-line downwards.

  The door shut behind him as he noticed the familiar shape at the table.

  ‘Eldridge?’ He clutched his severed hand tight in the other. It was possible to see the fight-or-flight instincts in his terrified face for a moment. His son was mere feet from the man who had taken everything from them, and Ruth could have any number of men outside. ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘Oh, this is a turn up!’ Mr Ruth seemed quite amused by the cruel twist of events. He delved one hand into his pocket and grabbed hold of something, but did not retrieve it just yet. ‘What a small world we live in. How have you been? Still dallying with your paints?’

  Vesta’s father stood as still as a hare in the path of a rumbling cartwheel.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not here to finish the job.’ Ruth leered. ‘Sit, have a piece of cake; your pretty
daughter is quite the baker.’

  ‘Do you two know each other?’ Aiden scowled.

  ‘We go back a long way.’ Ruth pulled his hand from inside his pocket to reveal a small ivory handled flick-knife. He pressed the inset button to expose the blade, still entirely casual about the whole affair. ‘Your father displeased my associate, maybe two years ago? I showed him the error of his ways.’

  Aiden’s fists clenched, the fiery look in his eyes mirroring Vesta’s own murderous intent.

  ‘Settle down, boy. You don’t want to do anything rash. If you harm me, you’ll end up far worse, and your family will surely go hungry without you to provide for them.’ Ruth was punctuating every third word with a little wave of his knife, just to remind everybody exactly who was in control. ‘But I would say that this chance meeting is quite fortuitous.’

  He paused as if someone might ask him why, but the family were suffocated by their own distemper. He continued nonetheless.

  ‘My job offer still stands, regardless. We cannot choose our family, after all. Though, I only want the most loyal people working for me as we move forward, and it just so happens that the perfect test for your loyalty has dropped square into our laps.’ He raised his knife hand to his ear and cupped his fingers. ‘I know what you want to say: “how fortunate”. Well, I agree.’

  The silence was so absolute, not even the long case clock in the hall remarked on the passing seconds.

  ‘Your father’s indiscretion caused him a debt of five fingers; I only took three. As I’m a generous man, I’ll waive any interest he might have accrued. But he still owes me a little finger and thumb.’ Eldridge flicked the knife around in his hand so that the hilt was facing outwards and offered it to Aiden. ‘If you would be kind enough to collect them for me, you may consider it a happy start to your new career. Decline and… I’d rather not elaborate in such polite company.’

  Aiden eyed the knife. Then reached out, hand quivering, and took it. For a moment he was consumed in his own head. Across the space, Vesta willed him to turn the blade on Ruth, to plunge it again and again into his chest, and rid them of his foul presence, once and for all.

  ‘Do it.’ Vesta’s father was subdued, seeming somehow completely sober for the first time in years. A tear spilled down his cheek. ‘We need the money, my painting… I can’t do it anymore, you both need this.’

  He placed his mutilated hand on the table.

  ‘No!’ Vesta shrieked, taking up the kitchen knife and dashing for the devil before her.

  Her feet pounded across the floorboards, the knife raised high, but her wrist was caught perfectly in Ruth’s waiting palm. His fingers clamped tightly, and a sharp twist spilled the blade from her grip. Pain lanced through her arm and elbow; another jerk span her on the balls of her feet and pinioned her to the end of the table, just inches from her father’s hand.

  ‘Do it,’ her father reiterated. ‘It’s the waiting that’s killing me.’

  Aiden set the knife across his father’s thumb. The blade was too short to span the gap between the remaining digits, each cut would need to be done separately.

  ‘No! Stop!’ Vesta kicked out, howling, failing against Ruth’s wiry might. ‘Please, don’t!’

  ‘Do it!’ her father roared over her.

  The knife pushed down through skin and tendon, channelling between bones to carve a slice in the table beneath.

  Another year had brought them to a grander home on a respectable street in a rising bourgeois neighbourhood. Vesta ate well, attended the theatre on occasion, and managed a trio of servants. Her hands were even beginning to soften after their years of domestic service. In her lowest moments, it was everything she had wished for and more. But it wasn’t perfect; her brother’s demeanour had chilled, and her father had become a recluse. Any pleasure drawn from the four course dinners, ruches of bombazine in her skirts, and each cup of expensive foreign tea, was soured by the criminal truth.

  Vesta returned to private study in her indolence, under the close watch of her brother’s two underlings. One was a dunce, as tall and broad as their opulent front door. The other was more learned, but insufferable with it. A prodigy compared to his cohorts, but in any world other than his own, nothing particularly unique. He aspired for Aiden’s rank, that was blatantly obvious, and Vesta worried he might think it wise to kill for it. She kept her eye as closely on him as he did on her.

  ‘Have you finished your schooling yet?’ The pompous underling was watching her today. Her brother had ordered it, he was terribly afraid that she might do something to jeopardise his position, and with good cause.

  Now that she had what she wanted, she had little to do but reminisce and regret. She couldn’t come to terms with her brother’s allegiance to Mr Ruth. That man had taken everything, and in giving it back, had bought each and every one of them. She was just another of Ruth’s tools, used to keep her brother in line – keep him loyal. Though it would surely undo her, if she had the chance, she wouldn’t hesitate to stick a rusty skewer in his chest.

  ‘It’s nearly sun down,’ the underling remarked.

  ‘I’m not done yet.’ She tended to reply only when spoken to nowadays. She hadn’t the inclination to engage any of these thugs in conversation.

  ‘Well, read faster. I want my supper before seven. You know I get terrors in the night if I eat too late.’ He ran his fingers through his receding red hair. He could only be about twenty five but looked closer to forty.

  Vesta nodded as if his suffering wasn’t further motivation for dragging her feet.

  ‘It’s easier to read without your lips flapping,’ she sneered over her history texts. She enjoyed the mental stimulation, but did worry that her strict education was intended to make her a better commodity to sell off. That was the sort of scheme she could see Ruth forming, another test that her brother would be desperate to pass. All the more reason to put a stop to all this.

  The underling scoffed at her insolence and returned to preening his nails with a paring knife that he seemed to carry everywhere.

  Without further interruption, the chapter was finished quickly. History had always been her best subject, and in selecting the volume regarding the not-so-ancient founding of The Assassins’ Guild, she had hoped to understand how such criminal organisations functioned. Unfortunately for her, the details were sparse. From what she could tell, the guild was a fairly ramshackle affair at the best of times. Nothing like Ruth’s regimented gang.

  Now she just wanted to see Mr Ruth dead in one of the myriad ways detailed in the book. Bled out on meat hooks, half his head blown open, or simultaneously boiled and drowned in a volcanic river.

  ‘Finished?’ The pompous gang-man flicked his last sliver of fingernail onto the library rug.

  She snapped the book closed, pushed her chair away from the desk – scraping the assuredly expensive flooring – and made for the door without a word.

  The underling stowed his knife and hurried after. Once out in the hall he ushered her towards the kitchens where they would be eating; her brother was using the dining room for some meeting with his larcenous betters.

  Her eyes caught Ruth’s as they passed in the hall; as ever, she displayed her contempt openly. He and her brother were drinking an aperitif with seven other men, including one whom she had seen in the painting that had cost her father the digits of one hand. Ruth’s associate, she remembered that much. He was certainly the one in charge, the root cause of all her woes, but not the perpetrator. Her hatred of Ruth burned brighter.

  ‘Take the New Pantheon,’ the shortest and portliest of the men spoke like a boiled egg was lodged in his gullet. ‘People can be compelled to do the most amazing things when there’s a higher power at stake.’

  ‘And, if we give them something to hope for, new recruits will flock to us like never before,’ Aiden added to the conversation.

  ‘It would take a miracle for this pivot in our organisation to be a success,’ The Associate contemplated, swilling wine in a la
rge glass. He inhaled the aroma casually, everyone waited for him to continue. ‘So why don’t we orchestrate one?’

  Vesta was marshalled into the kitchens and the door was closed behind her. The cook inside was making the last preparations for the dinner party’s first course. Despite being service staff he kept a cleaver nearby at all times. Vesta supposed it saved her brother money to have one man fill two jobs.

  ‘What have we got?’ the pompous underling whined.

  ‘You’ll have to sort yourselves out. I’m on my own tonight. I’ve got these to serve, and the mains to finish and glasses to keep filled…’ The cook’s rambling turned into a low grumble.

  The underling had Vesta sit at the counter where the servants ate and went into the larder. There was a little clattering and shuffling before he shouted. ‘Can we have the left over soup you’re serving?’

  ‘Fine.’ The cook took up three precariously balanced bowls, having sprinkled an artful swirl of oil and herbs on the top, and headed to the dining room.

  The underling returned with the remaining soup in a small pan and set it on the formidable brass and blacked stove. Then cheerily, he set about cutting up bread and slices of meat. Vesta didn’t help.

  ‘I prefer the thick stuff, but a bit of this fancy broth is nice every once in a while.’ He gave the pan a stir then sprinkled entirely too much salt into the already fully prepared and seasoned soup. ‘Do you like soup?’

  Vesta ignored him, not even feigning deafness; they all knew she hated it here. This place was comfortable, but it didn’t make it any less of a prison.

  ‘Thank you so much for this.’ The cook burst back in through the door with Mr Ruth in his wake.

  ‘It’s the least I can do.’ Ruth eyed Vesta with derision. ‘I’ll take these through; you just concentrate on the pig.’

  Ruth picked up two of the soup bowls still waiting to be taken to the dining room and left through the hall. Selections of perfectly good trays were stored in the dresser, but of course such a practicality did not occur to a man like Eldridge, so accustomed to being waited upon. Vesta noted the cook’s harassed demeanour, the distraction of her minder, and felt the stirrings of opportunity.