‘Walter!’ he bellowed as the world upended.
The slide down the tiles and freefall were pleasant compared to the harsh landing in the street that followed. His body hit the hard earth with a thump, but the pain was shockingly absent. He sprang up, his body ricocheting off the ground like a stick off a drum skin – resilient things, bones. He ran. Somehow, he managed to make it a few paces, his legs swinging under him like the lifeless appendages of a marionette. But it wasn’t long before he collapsed onto his back. There was the pain, late and all the more potent for its absence.
He lay in a heap moaning, whimpering, and gasping, but at least he wasn’t so bored any more.
‘You bloody idiot.’ Lord Beechworth’s acid-glare swam into view, with a white-coated surgeon at his side. ‘I don’t think we’ll be needing you actually doctor, this one’s beyond saving.’
Polished gun-metal glinted in the sunlight as Beechworth readied his rifle. A lazy aim, held at the hip, with the muzzle not six inches from the near-dead intruder. There was no need to overstate his intent for the benefit of anybody watching, his actions would speak loudly enough this time.
‘Don’t you dare, Claude!’ the mayor screeched from the window, but Beechworth pretended not to hear. ‘We need boys like that. They’ve got spunk!’
The rifle swung over Terrowin’s head; Beechworth pulled the trigger.
Crows cast to the sky with the thunderous rifle-boom. In such close confines, with houses all around, it was almost deafening. But in a place like Blackbile, there were no screams of horror or people running for shelter when they saw the smoking gun.
‘Looks like your firing blanks,’ Terrowin spluttered.
Beechworth tossed the rifle to the cobbles in a fit of pique. His bullet had lodged in the barrel and split it like a banana skin. Gun smoke weaved from the rift. It was a testament to the quality of the piece, as many a firearm would have simply exploded from such a jam. Beechworth stalked off.
Without further instruction, and bound by irrefutable oaths, the doctor knelt to treat Terrowin.
1682
Chapel bells announced the morning, and though each peel was more melodic than the last, all they garnered from William was a wince and a groan. It was the first day of the competition, the start only hours away, and he felt a full day short on sleep.
He had been up far too late going over the rules and discussing strategy with Vesta. He had wanted to ensure she was as clear on them as he was, particularly the new rules that related to her specifically as a sponsor. She had fallen quiet for a while upon learning that should she break any rule or attempt to flee, she would be held for execution after the competition was done. She had been almost apoplectic in learning that should William break the rules, he would merely be disqualified, and – even if innocent – she would be executed regardless. The only chance she had to survive was if he kept her safe and won the whole competition.
She had scorned at the crooked state of the guild for a while, but her rage quickly turned her back to the feud with her brother. The conversation of her slim chances was put behind them and not mentioned again.
William tried to swallow the dry taste from his mouth, but it just made it worse. It was as if he had been out all night drinking and carousing; his body was sore enough. He had been allocated a small blanket and cold square of floorboards across the room from her modest but comfortable bed. Every splinter and exposed nail had made itself known, waking him periodically, aching his bones and joints. He’d probably be in better shape if he hadn’t slept.
He sat up, cracked his neck and back, and took in the bleary dawn-lit space. It was a small room in The Brazen Bull, with a peeling ceiling and stained walls, and the narrowest window it seemed possible to make. He wondered if the mouldering damp had contributed any to his dry mouth and sore head.
Vesta let out a sleepy sigh and rolled over in the covers. Damn her, but it looked comfortable. He could have had his own; his own bed, his own room, his own sliver of light. Once he and Vesta had signed up to compete, he convinced her to part with the rest of her savings, but had opted to be sensible with what little coin they had. A thick new shirt in black – to hide filth – and a hard-wearing pair of brown woollen trousers were his first purchases. The tailor had even hemmed the trousers in oilcloth to protect against the wet and mud, so he was quite pleased with his haul.
His other acquisition was not so impressive. Though he should have invested more money in it, he couldn’t compete naked.
He picked up the matchlock and weighed it in his hand; the handle was awkward with a great ball on the end, all carved from wood with flaking lacquer. It was more of an antique than a professional firearm, the sort of thing used by an old pirate with a beard in his name. It did shoot, but not very well. He spent a few of the dozen bullets he could afford trying to hit a bottle from ten paces and had missed each time. He couldn’t even use paper cartridges. Each reload he needed to mess about; pour in the powder, tamp it down, and tip the bullet in the muzzle.
Vesta sighed again, mumbled something sleepily. He set down the pistol and supposed it would have to do.
‘Morning.’ William yawned and stretched the kinks from his spine as if he had only just woken up. He didn’t want her to know he had a poor night’s sleep; her life was riding on his skill and he didn’t want to distress her.
‘It’s the day.’ She propped herself up against the headboard with two large pillows and huddled the covers around her bunched up knees. Damn her, but it looked warm.
She squinted at the little slit of a window. He wondered if she was worrying; he was certainly on edge about the whole thing. If she had doubts, she hid them well.
‘Today, we kill my brother,’ she proclaimed with purpose, ‘avenge my father’s death, the loss of everything, put him back in his place… maybe get back to a normal life…’
She trailed off.
William considered mentioning “clause four” again. She was so focussed on her own task, he half thought she might up and abandon him once her brother was dead. He decided to trust her, for better or worse.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
She gestured to her nightclothes as if what he asked was ridiculous.
‘No, I mean, are you ready for what’s going to happen.’ He searched her for any doubt, or fear, or regret. So far, there was nothing, just a whole lot of denial. He was sure that would change once she actually saw the death, saw a few sponsors mercilessly cut down. He just hoped the morbid realisation – understanding exactly what she had embroiled herself in – didn’t paralyse her with fear, he didn’t want to lose her that way.
It seemed that he was more worried about her death than she was. To him, she was just desperate, lost. There was still chance for her to turn back – or there would have been had she not signed her life to him. He had been there once, could have gone back, but had pressed on. Now he was a killer and there wasn’t much else he could be; a thief perhaps, but he expected the pay wasn’t so good.
‘I’m ready.’ She made a fist in the covers.
It looked like storybook resolve to William, a lie she told herself, but maybe he was just projecting. He hoped he was wrong, that she was made of sterner stuff than he expected.
‘Good.’
They made themselves ready quickly, dressing in their only clothes and heading down to the tavern. Their breakfast of cured meat, bread, and cheese was gifted free by the landlord, who was pleased to be housing a guilder so soon before the competition. They ate their fill and drank from a selection of light teas. William’s back still ached a little, but he was as prepared as he could get, given the circumstances. Making sure that they kept good time, he secured his matchlock and they left for the town hall.
Though Blackbile was buzzing with more energy than it had been all week, getting to the square was relatively painless. A whole road had been closed to the public, allowing entrants and sponsors a direct route to the centre of it all. Even prior to the private roa
d, things hadn’t been too difficult; the tourists knew better than to be caught out in the streets once things started, and had collected in the numerous viewing zones. Taverns heaved with spectators, towers thrummed with chanting, great scaffolds swayed under the weight of so many viewers. Little islands of mania that would soon become the most peaceful areas in the town.
He spotted a betting den in a small square, open to the road on one side. Men were stood on a raised platform, swapping betting slips for gold, silver, and even imperial grana. Some were changing odds in real time as the bets came in, swapping panels painted with numbers between hooks, and moving assassin’s names up and down a list of most likely winners. William suspected his name wasn’t even amongst the few banners that had been discarded on the floor, Goldin’s might be, but it wasn’t up on the board. Lord Beechworth was top of the rankings, even despite his age, and Ojo was loitering in third place, given the uncertainty of his recent whereabouts. William was surprised to see Genevieve had landed the second spot for odds-on winner; perhaps her smug self-satisfaction was justified after all.
There were a few other names on there that he recognised. Ottilie of Sable, the mad bomber, who he recently learned was the rhinoceros ringleader of the Scolds who mocked him. Hester Turani was another he thought he might know, but only in the vaguest of terms. Dr Barber’s name was just being discarded from the list to be replaced at position twenty by Luis Lafitte-Dugas; an unknown.
A group of young boys dashed across the roadway to put a bet on while the streets were still safe. William wondered if they had come with parents or without, either way seemed madness. He found it ludicrous and incredible that anybody would to come to the town for the pleasure of watching all-out war, though he was sure the entrants and sponsors were even more unhinged.
As he and Vesta filtered onto the contestant-only thoroughfare, he eyed his fellows subtly. He didn’t want to let them know he was measuring each and every one of them. There were meticulous sharpshooters, poisoners, men and women that fought with blades and maces. He saw two stinking brutes whose frames seemed almost impossible in stature. Then he saw the group of Scolds and their rhinoceros woman, who was even larger still, taller and broader than William had dared imagine a human could be.
She had an iron cylinder across her back for launching firework-projectiles. He had tried to ape her enthusiasm for killing in Fairshore; it didn’t suit him as it did her. Perhaps, if she hadn’t inspired him to do that, he wouldn’t have got himself into such a tangle; he wouldn’t be “The Masquerade Killer”, and he wouldn’t be here. It was silly to blame anybody but himself.
He checked on Vesta; she didn’t seem too perturbed by the competition. As far as she was concerned, her brother was their only contender. It was a worry, but merely a drop in the ocean at this point.
When they arrived in the town square, between the stacked bleachers, William took Vesta’s hand and led the way. He directed them through the red velvet ropes and into the press. While he was trying to remain confident, there had to be a few hundred assassins here, and each one of them had a sponsor. There were so many strange and familiar faces; wanted-poster-ghouls, guild legends. He began to doubt his chances of success. He could shoot – at least he could with his flintlock – but there were so many here, he couldn’t see the winner being decided by anything other than dumb luck. At least that made the veteran champions less terrifying.
Swift movement caught his eye; a waving hand in the closest tier of bleachers. It was the ugly bug child, who stood beside his lanky friend. Strange that they remembered him; he wasn’t as distinctive as them, and impressive that they could pick him out of the crowd. The child did have awfully oversized eyes; perhaps that gave him an advantage. William wondered if it was them who had stolen his pack from the cart. Goldin would have surely mentioned it to him otherwise. Thief or not, it was nice to have at least one fan out there. He waved back lightly.
‘William, fancy seeing you here!’ The red-faced cultist thrust through a group of sponsors, all smiles and friendly hand gestures. It seemed everyone was on the lookout for William today, and he hoped that didn’t bode too badly once the shooting started.
‘And Vesta, my dear sister,’ he continued. His face had been freshly painted, vibrant and dripping. The burned side revealed entirely too many teeth. ‘It is so good to see you again!’
A clutch of six other cultists pressed tightly around him, armed with a variety of grenades, rods, guns, and spears. The man himself had a particularly impressive silver pistol at his hip; William’s flintlock.
‘I have to admit, you really have made my competition, William.’ Red-Face beamed, gesticulating dramatically, as is a pseudo-preacher’s want. ‘My superior has come all the way from Vitale to see us win this thing for the Cause, and now I get to prove myself by sacrificing my very own sister.’
He fanned at his eyes with a free hand, welling up from the sheer deific joy of it all.
Vesta was sneering so hard William thought she might actually let out a growl. He didn’t blame her for wanting to kill her brother, it seemed like more of a mercy than anything else. The man was quite mad.
‘We should be going.’ William tugged on Vesta’s arm, fearing a premature outbreak of violence. In that moment she was a pit-bull, and he just had to ease her away. ‘I arranged to meet a friend, don’t want to keep him waiting.’
Friend. That word sounded odd coming from his own mouth; as it would on many an assassin’s lips. It was a lonely profession, and he had been on his own for so long. The prize was a strange event for all, but he was getting used to making allies and enemies again. If only the transition back to solitude after the competition would be so easy.
‘Don’t go. You can stay here can’t you?’ Red-Face spoke like a welcoming host. ‘We don’t have to fight, do we? You keep Vesta here, we’ll take care of her. You can bow out of the competition. I’m sure I can make it worth your while.’
William mirrored Vesta’s sneer; wishing death on the slimy sycophant. He was half tempted to stay and get the fight done as soon as the competition began; get what Vesta wanted, get his pistol back, wipe that unnatural smile away. But there were too many cultists at the zealot’s back, too many chances to get shot.
‘Don’t worry.’ He let Vesta take his hand again. ‘We’ll be coming back for you.’
‘I’m glad you managed to find yourself a sponsor.’ Goldin drove a path through the clutter of waiting assassins. ‘I worried you’d miss out on all the fun.’
Though William had planned to meet with Goldin at a large flag set up in the centre of the square, they had happened upon one another in the crowd while still on route to the landmark. Goldin then insisted they get a better spot, so that he might see the stage, and hadn’t reacted with much humour when Vesta had offered to hoist him up.
‘Fun?’ Vesta scoffed. ‘This isn’t exactly my definition of fun.’
‘Quite talkative, isn’t she? Ever considered gagging her, like mine?’ Goldin jostled the wriggling cocoon of bandages and ropes across his back, producing a muffled moan. The bound body clattered against his blunderbuss – on a loose strap over his other shoulder. It was a wonder the little man was still so sprightly as he weaved through the crowd, his sponsor must have been almost half his weight, and the blunderbuss nearly as tall.
‘It might be a good idea.’ William weighed Vesta with his eyes, wondering with a smirk as to how practical it might be to keep her across his back. He certainly wouldn’t have to worry about her dashing off to battle her brother. Vesta’s baleful glare cut short his flight of fancy.
‘I don’t think that would work for us,’ he added more seriously.
‘I’m only pulling your leg anyway, and no offence meant miss.’ Goldin offered Vesta a cheeky wink. ‘You could do much worse than William here.’
They swerved around the giant twins William had seen on the road; they stank even worse up close.
‘I’m hoping to find another pistol fairly quickly
.’ William laid out his strategy. ‘We’re better off working together, I think. We’ll have a better chance of success if we can both shoot. There’s nothing in the rules against it.’
‘Aye.’ Goldin mused before adding grimly, ‘I’ve heard some sponsors are fully paid-up assassins themselves.’
William didn’t like that. An amateur was one thing, but partnering with an experienced murderer seemed a little underhanded. Now that the gate had slammed closed over his own avenue for cheating, he was dead against that sort of thing.
A not-so-distant cry prickled the hairs on the back of William’s neck. He slowed to a halt and listened. Vesta and Goldin didn’t notice, pushing ahead through the crowd. The sound came again, like a distant moan. He couldn’t make out what the words were, but the timbre had an eerie familiarity to it. Something that raised a primal fear in his gut, but also washed him with pleasant nostalgia. He couldn’t put his finger on quite what the noise reminded him of.
Assassins balked and blustered as they were heaved aside by a strong figure heading straight towards William. He heard the stumbling footfall first, the laboured breath second. Then, as a refined lady assassin – with vast frills and keenly sharpened rapier – was thrust aside, he saw the half-silhouette.
‘Fissss!’ the mentally stunted man screamed joyfully at the sight of William, somehow recognising him after nearly ten years. Hot spittle sprayed from his mouth, and he shuffled closer, trying to shudder out the word. ‘Fiss- sseee.’
William’s mind conjured the slick stench of northern seas, fish guts, and smoke. He didn’t know what to do. The shambling horror seemed friendly enough now, even if he had tried to kill him as a child. He wondered exactly how sapient a man with half a head could be. Lamebrain; that’s what the other slaves called him.
‘Fisss…’ The slave leered at him like a long-lost friend. Unnaturally strong hands grasped William by the wrist and pushed up his shirt sleeve. A long, bony finger prodded at the large red blotch of a scar that ran the length of his forearm. Proudly, the slave proclaimed, ‘gut and shhh-kale.’
The Man-Butcher Prize Page 16