The Man-Butcher Prize

by Charles X Cross

  ‘Please, sit.’ The mayor ushered Terrowin to a side chair. One of the guards doubled over at Terrowin’s sudden movement and nearly dropped the iron ball on the expensive parquet floor – the equally lavish rug had been removed, presumably for an attempt at washing out all the blood. Quite generously, Terrowin quickened his pace, causing the guard to fumble the ball and score a line in the expensive lacquer.

  ‘Would you like something? Food, a drink perhaps?’ the mayor added, with a wince for the state of his office. ‘I’ve heard you can’t do business on an empty stomach.’

  ‘I could murder one of those savoury nuggets.’ Terrowin collapsed into the chair. ‘A peanut, was it?’

  ‘Yes.’ The mayor directed the southerner to the shelf with a click of his fingers, and instructed the other to remove Terrowin’s chains.

  The two killers reluctantly obeyed their clerical master. The shackle unclipped and Terrowin stretched himself out. He couldn’t help but chuckle, the most lawless people in the world obeying a simple bureaucrat for the comfort that a contract provided. He kicked off his worn boots and reclined like he was settling in for the night.

  ‘You wanted to see me Walter?’ Lord Beechworth padded into the room. Terrowin didn’t turn around, but he could tell the exact moment the man spotted him because his footsteps stopped with a stomp. ‘Do you want me to fetch my rifle?’

  Terrowin barked a laugh, all this caution over someone as minor as him.

  ‘That shouldn’t be necessary.’ The mayor took a filled glass from a silver platter offered by a superbly obedient murderer. ‘You were a little trigger happy last time, these guild-fellows will provide security for today.’

  Beechworth harrumphed. The mayor ignored it.

  ‘So, explain this proposition you had. A business venture, was it?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been thinking to myself; I miss the good old days. The days before the guild took hold, when every assassin was just out for number one and would kill anyone for the right to a contract. It was exciting not knowing whether you were going to get a bullet in your head; kept you on your toes.’ Terrowin wiggled his, agitating a hole in his grimy sock, and sunk further into his seat. ‘Now everything goes a lot smoother, I can just pick up a job from a guild drop-off and get on with it, but… where’s the danger?’

  He shrugged, adding, ‘it just gets to the point where the killing becomes tedious. Farm boys and fat country gents are all I get nowadays, and frankly they’re beneath me.’

  ‘Do you want more high profile contracts? If you’re good, we’re always looking to up-skill our assassins.’ The mayor tried to proffer a solution, but it seemed that he just couldn’t understand.

  ‘They’re all beneath me Walter. I don’t want to kill an accountant, or a magnate, or even a king. I want to kill an assassin.’ He let the mayor fully absorb that for a moment before continuing, ‘and I’m sure I’m not the only one. Sooner or later this monotony will spread and your whole empire will crumble beneath you.’

  He shoved a fistful of peanuts into his mouth. ‘Lunatics breaking into your office is only the beginning of it.’

  ‘Well, what do you propose is done?’ The mayor was leaning so far forwards his arse was beginning to peel off his chair. Terrowin hadn’t the patience for fishing, but he suspected this was what it felt like to be reeling in a big one.

  ‘A competition, of course!’ he proclaimed triumphantly. ‘A bout open only to guild members. We’ll gamble our lives for the prize, and only one can be donned the champion. The rest will be sent home in boxes.’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘Or several small boxes.’

  ‘And what, pray tell, would be a prize worthy enough to tempt my assassins into what is tantamount to suicide?’ The mayor still didn’t understand, damned bureaucratic fool.

  ‘Winning! Being proclaimed the best assassin that ever was! Going down in history as a hero rather than a crook.’ Terrowin spread his grin despite the pain.

  ‘I doubt a little scuffle in our town would be history worthy, we must lose five men a night in tavern brawls.’

  ‘We could promote it as a big event,’ Beechworth posited, pacing from behind Terrowin to peer out the window. ‘Invite imperial citizens to watch, they love a good hanging – a blood thirsty group the lot of them.’

  ‘You’re not taking this seriously are you Claude?’ Walter shook his head in disbelief; took a swig of his whiskey.

  ‘We could sell tickets, make this hell-hole the destination for people to see some top-tier death and destruction. It would be a boon for our floundering economy, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Aye!’ Terrowin was getting giddy at the thought of it, the scale could be far grander than even he had envisioned. ‘Little kids won’t want to grow up imperial knights or Vitulan centurions anymore, they’ll want to be killers, and they’ll idolise the guild, the competition winner above all.’

  ‘The logistics of it, it doesn’t work out.’ The mayor pinched the corners of his eyes. Terrowin couldn’t help but think that Walter’s father might have gone for the idea by now. ‘We’d lose too many members, that’s if anybody would enter. I can’t see any right minded guilder-’

  ‘I would.’ Beechworth leant against the wall behind the mayor with one finger pressed to his tightened lips. ‘When you become an assassin it’s ever so exciting. When you master the craft it becomes as tawdry as anything else. As much as I hate to agree, Terrowin is right. Look where I’ve ended up: in a town hall of all places, guarding a trumped up quill-shifter. No offence meant.’

  ‘I’ll enter,’ the southern woman chimed in, caressing the stock of her blunderbuss. ‘I fancy my chances. Even if I didn’t win, I’m sure I’d come close. I’d still get remembered. One of the toymakers might immortalise me – I always used play with the jousters. Imagine that, children playing with assassin dolls; looking up to us.’

  ‘If Zabal’s doing it, I am too. I’m not getting left out.’ The last assassin puffed out his chest, his cauliflower ears tinged red against the pasty flesh of his bald head. ‘If you can have people remembering you, I want some too.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do when you’re all dead?’ the mayor interrupted, souring the atmosphere somewhat.

  ‘I’m not going to die.’ The southerner scowled. ‘I’m going to win.’

  ‘Me neither,’ the bald assassin added. ‘And if we’re not, there’s no way Claude will fail, he’s the best by far!’

  ‘I don’t think you quite understand how this works.’ Mayor Perrin pushed his chair back and stood. Normally a move like that would signify the meeting was drawing to a close. But from his subordinates’ lack of movement, they didn’t seem to agree.

  ‘We don’t need to understand it, we’re assassins, not mayors!’ Terrowin nodded as if he had talked Walter into a corner.

  ‘I’ve heard enough.’ Perrin scowled at his guilders urging them to action with what little presence he had.

  ‘As have I.’ Beechworth pursed his lips for a second, then smiled. ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea. We’ll raise the profile of the guild, get some money flowing, and – most importantly – have a little fun for once.’

  ‘Now, hang on a minute Claude-’ the mayor blustered, but was pushed aside effortlessly by his noble subordinate. He collapsed into his chair with a grunt, nearly tipping it over.

  ‘Let’s make it official, shall we?’ Lord Beechworth held out his hand for Terrowin to shake.

  ‘Aye, but I’m in charge of the whole enterprise.’ Terrowin reached out, but Beechworth’s hand retreated.

  ‘Fifty-fifty.’ The lord cocked an eyebrow. ‘We’ll plan this thing together, can’t have you running amok unchecked.’

  ‘I’m not good at sharing.’ Terrowin’s fingers trembled.

  ‘Neither am I.’ Claude offered his hand again.

  Chaos and excitement hinged on a see-saw bargain, while tedium loomed dismally behind him. There was a subtle shift in Claude’s otherwise collected calm
; a slight widening of his mouth, the clench of his white teeth, a flare to his nostrils. The lord was as hungry to escape his sedentary existence as Terrowin himself.

  ‘Deal.’

  1682

  The mayor had finished his initial speech of the opening ceremony, and rather than launching things into motion, handed off to his fellow committee members for further dawdling oration. Tobias Lietner, the great weaponsmith and inventor, talked relentlessly about the guild’s successes over the past two years. Baradus Brindle, famous thug, bored everyone about future prospects. When he was done, and everyone was at their wits end, chief apothecary, Klava Ilyina, took to the stage to recite the key rules.

  Dr Barber blew air through pursed lips. ‘I always thought this part exciting when I was on the stage doing the rambling. Now I’m here, I see how tedious it is.’

  ‘Quiet down a second.’ Goldin craned up to see better, as if it would help his hearing over such a distance from the stage.

  ‘Everyone received a complete copy of the rules at sign-up. For the illiterate, I shall repeat the most important points,’ Klava announced.

  Goldin tossed a wink William’s way; for the little man’s many talents, it seemed reading wasn’t one.

  ‘First and foremost,’ Klava stated blandly. ‘You may not kill an assassin that has a living sponsor, or if they withdraw once their sponsor has perished.’

  William wondered exactly how a woman so dull might have come to join The Assassins’ Guild. She wore a long black smock, had her hair in tight bunches, and though she spoke with a loud authority, her monotone was invasively draining. It seemed that all the anticipation in the square had seeped away like water in a cracked bucket.

  ‘Get on with it!’ An assassin ten yards in front of William started protesting.

  ‘Once a sponsor dies, the entrant has one minute to clearly state their intention to withdraw or continue; during this time they must not be detained, injured, or slain. A declaration to continue is binding, and you are free to kill.’ Klava paused to let the information sink in. ‘If asked by entrant or referee, you are obligated to tell them if your sponsor still lives.’

  ‘We don’t care!’ the protester shouted again, ‘just get on with it; we want some blood!’

  The subtle approach of a man amongst the committee members drew William’s eye. Through a process of deduction, he assumed it was the spymaster, bent to whisper into the ear of a nearby guilder; bad news for the bored protester.

  ‘Blackbile is an open battleground, excepting the spectator havens forbidden to competitors. Regardless of this space, your sponsor must stay within fifty feet of you while they still live.’ Klava’s bland speech swept over the protestor without pause.

  ‘When the starting pistol is fired, a single hour of grace will commence. Killing may only start at the toll of the chapel bell. Once we are down to twenty entrants or fewer, by our referee’s best approximation, the bell will toll again; you must lay down arms and return to the square.’

  ‘What’s a referee?’ Goldin asked Barber in a hushed voice.

  ‘Hired arbiters or non-competing volunteer-assassins. They stalk the streets, send messages back to the town hall. It’s so the committee can follow the event; we’ve got a whole town to play in after all. You’ll see them; they carry cages of birds.’

  ‘After a brief respite and medical aid, the competition will continue in a more confined battleground until we have a winner.’

  A moment of quiet followed as she shuffled a few papers and folded them under her arm. The mayor cleared his throat pointedly.

  With a brief huff of exasperation – a large gesture on such a blank canvas – Klava added, ‘killing referees is strictly prohibited; any offenders will be disqualified and barred from future contests.’

  Without a thank you or a goodbye, she returned to her seat.

  In the time it took the mayor to return to the podium, William noticed the protester had fallen suspiciously quiet. It seemed the guilder sent by the spymaster had been expediently deadly and silent under the murmur of the crowd.

  ‘Thank you, Klava.’ There was a weak smattering of applause, mostly from committee members, who had a higher risk of ingesting one of her poisons. ‘Now, if you’ll please welcome to the stage our two returning champions for this year: Lord Beechworth and Ojo Azul!’

  While the further extension of proceedings had elicited a groan from the crowd, it quickly turned to a furore of excitement. The two greying legends walked onto the stage: Beechworth with a rifle and imperious bearing, and Ojo – armed with a longbow. It was a surprisingly inconspicuous weapon for a champion, but in the hands of a man so ruthless, it could be as deadly as any firearm or pipe bomb. William knew all too well that the old-hand’s old hands had the strength to throttle a man with little effort.

  ‘Welcome, to the eighth bi-annual Man-Butcher Prize!’ Ojo’s voice was as strong and distinct as William remembered. Even across the distance, and the hordes of rabid fans screaming and cheering, the rich timbre carried. ‘Those of you who compete here today will go down in the annals of history; no matter the outcome.’

  Lord Beechworth loaded his rifle. The bullet casing glinted in the sun; copper – the new design, available to only those with the right connections and wealth to burn. William had heard they were a vast improvement on hand-folded cartridges of paper, powder, and shot; the new loading devices made him shiver. Hard to believe, but rumour said there were rifles that could shoot ten times before requiring a reload. He just hoped that Beechworth was unique with this advanced weaponry; it hardly seemed fair.

  Ojo waved the crowd to a hush and continued his rousing speech.

  ‘What a pleasure to compete with such fine assassins. Without further delay, I, Ojo Azul, prize champion of seventy four, and Lord Beechworth, who needs no more introductions, declare this year’s competition has begun. To a good and honourable death!’

  Beechworth aimed his rifle for the sky; the single shot echoed over the erupting cheer of the crowd. The mayor clapped both legends on the back, whispered something in Beechworth’s ear, and retired to a safe viewing platform.

  ‘Is that it?’ Confused, William looked around at the somewhat anticlimactic sight of assassins slowly milling out of the square. Genevieve had already disappeared.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Goldin chuckled. ‘We can’t rightly start shooting here and now can we? The prize would be given out before the hour was done. It’d be a bloodbath, entertaining no doubt, but over far too quickly.’

  Goldin licked his finger and raised it skyward to test the wind. It probably wasn’t that good of a gauge, as at arm’s length it was still lower than the average height of the crowd.

  ‘I’m headed west.’ He grabbed William’s hand and shook it. ‘Go east, and I’ll see you when this is all over, lad. Don’t want to be shooting each other’s sponsors or anything.’

  ‘No,’ William agreed. He watched Goldin filter into the crowd.

  Vesta shuffled behind him. She had been silent for some time now, weighing the consequences for the first time it seemed. He patted her shoulder, thought about saying something, but nothing he could think of was particularly comforting. Victory was her only chance.

  A furious screech diverted William’s floundering consolation attempt. Barber was struggling to leave the square. The wheels of his chair had become embroiled in a thick patch of mud, just beyond the periphery of the dirt-stained carpet.

  ‘No, no, no!’ He thumped the armrest with a chicken-foot hand. ‘Lift and push; don’t just push, you’re making it worse.’

  Barbie shoved harder, only serving to sink the chair further into the mulch. Smirking, and glad of the distraction, William stepped forward to assist, but someone else beat him to it. A knotty arm hefted the front of the chair, the wheels slurped from the mud and rocked onto semi-solid ground.

  ‘Help-ing-g-g,’ Lamebrain proclaimed with a wide smile, spread right to the edge of his half-width face. ‘Helping.’

 
‘Get off him!’ The foppish privateer, ever close to his enslaved sponsor, slapped one of Lamebrain’s hands making him recoil like a child.

  ‘Do as you’re told – I am so sorry about him, doctor.’ The privateer sounded quite sincere in his apology to Barber; the doctor was a prize committee member after all. ‘He’s normally so obedient, but this crowd has him over-excited.’

  William was caught between action and observation, and only now realised he’d been glaring at the exchange, disgusted. He and Vesta should have been well on their way by now. Yet the sycophancies of the privateer and Lamebrain’s plight held him fast.

  As if he could sense William’s burning glower, the privateer straightened, bristling with lace and buoyant curls.

  ‘If you wanted to watch a show, you should have stayed with the spectators, Masquerade Killer,’ the privateer hissed, jutting his chin. ‘Get away from me, and my sponsor.’

  ‘Fish-ee,’ Lamebrain shuddered out playfully, though it was cut short by a tremendous yank on his leash. The privateer’s boot sent the slave sprawling, another strike made him wail.

  William’s matchlock was half-drawn when Vesta snatched his elbow, fixing him with wide eyes. The hour of grace had barely begun, and there were other things to worry about than Lamebrain and his master. His neck prickled, aware that others in the crowd would know who he was too; making more enemies was a bad idea. Settling on a final scowl, William rammed the pistol back in his belt and stalked from the square.

  The hour-long amnesty was nearly at a close. William had planned to reach the market to loot a few quality weapons, but he and Vesta had made slow progress. The streets were heavy with the worst mud yet, and as he had feared, the main road was popular with the majority of assassins.

  ‘I’m scared,’ Vesta spoke for the first time in – he didn’t know how long.