‘Ah, Walter, all us mortals are headed to the other side eventually.’ Terrowin tipped the dish, sliding the last few nuts into his open mouth, and chewing with gusto. ‘Today, tomorrow, or next week; it hardly matters.’
He rounded the desk and lolled in the mayor’s plush chair. It was roomy and padded, and had a delightful mechanism that allowed him to tip back just enough to rest his feet comfortably on the desk.
‘Live fast, die young, eh?’ He sucked salt dust and grease from his fingers. ‘It’s much better than the drawn out ache of old age, I’d say.’
‘I can’t say I agree with that.’ The mayor receded further into the hollow of his desk like a turtle into its shell, covering his ears against a gurgling death-scream in the distance.
‘Mayhem is my favourite, for sure.’ Terrowin sighed wistfully and leant back in the chair, observing the square through the window. Two assassins were fighting with swords, blood-flecked, ash-smeared, their long coats and wild hair ruffled in an artistic breeze. He was surprised to see them still alive in such a prominent position; but it was a wonderful sight. A good marksman, should any be watching, would wait until one bested the other to save on ammunition and keep their vantage a secret.
Aldreda, the Man-Butcher, had survived her tumble through the guts of the shop, and marched into view. Terrowin sneered and spat on the mayor’s lush carpet. The two swordsmen saw her approach, but they were too engrossed in their feud to stop her. Together, they might have stood a chance against such an ominous foe, but they clearly couldn’t put aside their differences. One was knocked to the ground with a meaty fist and lost grip of his sword. The other was blasted with a blunderbuss the big woman must have scavenged. There was a bit of excitement as the floored man scrabbled to regain his blade, but too slow; his head was crushed under her monstrous boot.
Terrowin jeered quietly.
A stray shot missed Aldreda by inches. She ducked and barrelled after the shooter. Terrowin couldn't believe she had dodged death again.
‘She’s going to win this fucking thing if this carries on,’ he muttered, worrying that her unprecedented good fortune was the result of Saint Barnham's blessing or even the god of luck herself. That chafed; it was definitely cheating. He shook the foolish thought from his head. Saints didn’t ordain the winners of competitions like this, and gods didn’t often favour killers.
‘She can’t win, Walter!’ Arcane influence or not, he could not let her succeed. ‘Anyone but her.’
Absorbed with his scheming, Terrowin failed to hear the approach of another assassin until the office door swung open.
‘Good gods, Walter; it’s wild out there.’ Beechworth swept in with his rifle slung over his back. He dusted the ash from his overcoat, slow to realise the man sat behind the desk was not the mayor at all. He cocked an eyebrow at Terrowin. ‘Why am I not surprised?’
‘Claude!’ Terrowin beamed, unmoved from his recline, save for the mouth of his pistol which was now aimed directly at the lord’s heart. ‘Having fun out there?’
‘I was.’ He smiled shallowly.
Terrowin could sense Beechworth’s indecision, weighing up the pros and cons of trying for his rifle. There was no chance he’d ready it before Terrowin shot him, but surviving wasn’t one of his options now. It was just a matter of whether he wanted to go down fighting.
‘Glad you had fun, old chap.’ Terrowin pulled back the hammer on his flintlock. ‘See you on the other side. That Man-Butcher-imposter will probably send me after you in a few minutes.’
‘Wait.’ Beechworth raised a palm for peace. ‘It’s hardly sporting to deny a man a last drink, is it?’
‘Your tricks won’t work on me.’ Terrowin smirked, then jerked his chin at the cabinet. ‘One glass; but no funny business, understand?’
‘I am a gentleman-’
‘And I’m a saint. Just leave the rifle by the door.’
Obediently, Beechworth slipped the rifle strap from his shoulder and let the weapon clatter to the floor. Even with the man disarmed, Terrowin wasn’t about to lower his own gun. He used the muzzle to track the lord’s progress to the bookcase loaded with drink.
‘I think I’ll have a spot of this Smelter’s Whiskey as the mayor’s not here.’ Beechworth selected a diminutive bottle from amidst the decanters. The cork was sealed over with blue wax and green ribbon. He pulled a short dagger from a concealed pocket and peeled it off, sending a playful wink Terrowin’s way. ‘It’s his most expensive stuff.’
‘I’m here, Claude.’ The mayor’s voice was muffled underneath his desk. ‘And I’d prefer it if you didn’t open that, I was saving it for my birthday.’
‘Then let me wish you a happy birthday now, as I’m unlikely to see your next. Cheers.’ Beechworth popped the cork out and took a swallow straight from the bottle. ‘Would you like some?’
Terrowin politely declined, trying to focus on the dagger and wondering if Beechworth was any good at throwing. It was hard to stay alert and affect nonchalance at the same time, but he would be damned if he’d take his feet off the desk. Any sudden movement could see the blade lodged in his guts, and even if a knife toss missed, there was a chance the blade would fly out the window and alert Aldreda to his location.
Beechworth moved closer, slipped the knife back home and peered out of the open window. He used two fingers to hold aside the wafting curtain and took a slow sip of the liquor.
‘The gall of it; the effrontery.’ Beechworth tutted in mock-sympathy. ‘Someone stealing your name, then killing you. I wouldn’t be able to die happy, knowing I had left a score unsettled.’
Terrowin didn’t reply, still intent on keeping alert.
‘On your deathbed, one missed opportunity is worse than a hundred misadventures; the sparing of such an imposter would be quite simply the worst of missed opportunities.’ Beechworth rounded abruptly. ‘Well done, however; you have me cornered. I know I’m as much as dead already, and you my killer. I won’t get the chance to make you pay what you owe, but we could make things a little fairer.’
‘I’d take more enjoyment watching you beg for your life, milord. You’ve only yourself to blame, marching in here without a second look.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Beechworth paused for a moment in thought, then laid out his proposal, ‘What say we make an alliance, of a sort? Spare me now, then we’ll depose that charlatan Aldreda together. You keep your name and-’
‘And what? You get to shoot me in the back?’ Terrowin blew noisily through pursed lips; an ungainly sound that made Beechworth grimace and tut.
‘And then do me the honour of a duel, as payment for my assistance. Imagine the enraptured crowds gathered to watch our final showdown; the two greatest assassins, gun to gun.’
For a moment, Terrowin’s vision blurred as he let his mind picture the scene. A chill crept up his spine, raised gooseflesh on his skin and thrilled to the tips of every hair. He’d always wanted to be in a duel. There was something so very tempting about such pre-meditated madness.
‘Is there anything in the rules forbidding alliances, Walter?’ Terrowin set his boots on the floor, blood rushing pins and needles through his legs.
‘In all honesty, I was so busy with the flyers that I didn’t get around to the rules, other than “last person standing wins”,’ the mayor replied from his refuge.
Beechworth smiled over his now empty bottle, any sign of nervousness evaporated. They both knew it made sense to join forces. ‘My word is my bond; I shan’t attack you until that fraud is dead and we’ve walked ten paces in the square.’
It would be a rather dull ending to their relationship to shoot him now. Tonguing peanut from between teeth, Terrowin knew he wouldn’t be satisfied if he fought Beechworth any other way than in a duel; the perfect concoction of skill and luck. Besides, with Aldreda dead, he would keep his moniker regardless of the outcome. Tucking his flintlock under his belt, he shook the lord’s hand.
1682
William tried to keep the knife still
in the fleshy sheath of his forearm, holding the limb close to his body. Blood darkened his hand, warm and sticky at the edges, but the battleground below made it impossible to administer aid. Other assassins had joined the fray, drawn like ravening wolves to the scent of death, and it was only a matter of time before he and Vesta were spotted.
They crossed three roofs quickly, two flat and one with a shallow incline, before reaching a more steeply pitched roof. Arms wide to balance, Vesta gracefully crossed the central ridge of clay tiles, while he wobbled and shuffled after her.
Reaching the end, William realised the next building was too high to climb onto; though it had looked surmountable from their starting point, his injuries made it impossible. Going back down the ladder would put them in the heart of the current shoot-out, and any attempt to hold the rooftop would be tantamount to suicide.
He looked down. There was an alleyway to one side – narrow and damp with only two gated exits – which they could have vaulted with a sprint-start if they weren’t shot out of the air beforehand. Acrobatics were out of the question.
On the other side, two storeys down, was a small cobbled courtyard. It was surrounded by a network of cheaply made outbuildings, warehouses and squats; a criminal complex that acted as a base of illicit trading operations and housing for its members. William had infiltrated enough such establishments in the imperial cities to know how they worked.
Gang signs had been stencilled on the grey plaster walls and a half-rotted corpse swung in a cage, horrors undermined by strings of frilly knickers and colourful stockings strung across a wooden veranda on the first floor balcony. Such garments meant a staff only flop-house lay within, and hopefully that would also include an onsite doctor to patch up his bleeding arm. Though it looked temporarily vacant, the complex held innumerable hiding places for competitors and thugs alike.
‘That’s probably our best option,’ he pointed the way with his chin. The veranda was below them, strung with coloured silks and linens to shelter the bawds on their breaks. It looked awfully precarious and rotten in places, but it was the easiest way down.
Carefully, Vesta sat down and helped him do the same. Then, sliding gingerly over the ash-dusted roof tiles, she slithered from the apex to the gutter and dangled her legs over the edge. Her eyes bulged as she tried to find the veranda beams with free swinging feet.
‘I can’t reach.’ She gulped. Her fingers were white and trembled as she clung to the tiles.
‘Hang on.’ William slid himself towards her, his descent hastened by his mud slickened clothes and the worn soles of his leather boots. Before he slipped over the edge, he rolled onto his stomach and braced his feet on the gutter; the fixtures squealed in protest.
‘Ready?’ His smile was pinched as he offered his good hand to lower her the last few inches.
‘I don’t have much choice, do I?’
She wasn’t heavy, but William’s position was awkward and his body was drained. He ground his teeth and his back curled uncomfortably as she reached blindly with her legs. They lurched as one of her feet collided with a beam.
‘Just a little lower!’
William grunted and bent as far as he could. Instinctively, he braced with his free arm and barked in agony, almost dropping her as his muscles gripped around the embedded cheese-knife. Then Vesta found her footing, just as an explosion shook the building to its foundations. A row of tiles plinked and scraped over the edge, one after the other, to shatter on the cobbles below.
‘Your turn.’ Vesta offered up her hands, almost frantic.
The gutter bent and scored his stomach while his boots scraped over the plaster, his arms trembled, certain he had over-shot. Vesta’s hands clutched his midriff. She took some of his weight and steadied him. His toes reached for a beam, but he wasn’t as tall as she.
‘I’ve got you,’ she gasped, adjusting her grip about him.
Exhaling, he trusted his weight to her, and let go of the roof. She guided him to a beam expertly, but he nearly toppled off and had to brace himself against the wall. Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes.
‘That wasn’t so bad.’ She patted him on the back. ‘One more, then we’re down.’
With assistance, William sat down on the beam, and slipped from it to the veranda in a controlled drop. The landing sent a jolt of pain through him and his knees quivered, but he was happy to be down nonetheless.
Vesta handed him a small collection of paper cartridges, half of what they had left from the privateer’s pilfered supply, and he loaded his silver flintlock. It snapped shut and sheared off the back of the cartridge, exposing the powder within to sparks of the flint when fired.
Confident now he had his own pistol back in hand, he stalked ahead and kept his back flush to the wall as he approached the first large window. A quick peek revealed the gaudy room inside was empty. He waved Vesta on, and hurried past more windows until he reached the flop-house doors.
The double entrance was carved with cherubs cajoling in bunches of grapes and had obviously come from a far grander building; it was a recent addition and yet to be plastered-in properly from the exposed brickwork at its edges. Keeping his gun ready, he nudged the door and was surprised to find it unlocked.
Perfumes and pipe smoke hung on the air; stale yet distinct. There had been people in here, perhaps as early as this morning, but it was empty now. Unlike the ill-used saloon interior of Melting Moments, this one aped the grandeur of the private clubs in Fairshore. Expensive fabrics covered chaises, velvet drapes and silk cushions were abundant, crystal shades glittered over oil lamps. Yet nothing matched, and the flagrant disregard of tasteful colour combinations was making William feel dizzy. He scowled, focusing his attention on the shadows and the wider room with substantial effort.
A brothel of this size should have the medical supplies they required. After all, without the requisite elixirs and tinctures to keep various rots at bay, a courtesan wouldn’t last long in a place like Blackbile. At the very least there would be a supply of opiates and the ever-popular ether to numb William’s pain.
On quiet feet, eyes watching for any sign of movement, they gained the next floor and padded across the landing. Only the echoing retorts of the fight outside reached them; perhaps this was a brief respite in their run of bad luck.
William didn’t want to tempt Fate, so approached the final door with caution. It was painted in a shade of smart forest green, while the frame had been striped in alternating red and white; a notice that the doctor was both a barber and a surgeon. William nudged the door open.
Inside, a man lay on a well-used bed, quite naked save for his lab coat and an ether-mask hung loosely around his neck. He had a soft gut and grey at his temples; most likely the flop-house doctor. A similarly attired woman and younger man draped either side of him in a contented fugue.
Vesta pinched the back of William’s arm, and glowered. He realised he’d been staring longer than was necessary. With a savage prod in his good shoulder, she indicated the medical supply cupboards. Then, quiet as any cat-burglar worth her salt, she rummaged in drawers and shelves while William aimed his pistol between the comatose staff and the door.
At her silent nod, they escaped the pungent medical office and returned to the relative safety of the main room. To William’s surprise, Vesta shoved him into a chaise, glaring as he tried to protest against her ministrations. In no time at all, she had dashed the knife wound with a burning tonic and wiped it clean with a fresh linen swab. He took a quick huff from an ether bottle – the odour rising sour memories – then bit hard on the wooden dowel shoved into his mouth.
Vesta counted quickly from three to one and yanked out the fat blade. Every bitter serration added to his guttural growl, despite the tonics. Squirming, he tried to free himself from her grasp and was slapped like a misbehaving child.
She worked quickly. Four neat stitches closed the wound, and once it was dressed and hidden under his ragged sleeve, he could almost forget it was there – tha
t might have been the lagging effect of the tonics. It pulsed hotly, and the sensation of fine gut-thread passing through the flesh of his arm had made him queasy, but all in all, Vesta had done well.
‘You’ve a knack with a needle.’ William tried to make hushed conversation, hoping he could turn it to something less gruesome.
‘I’ve a knack for fixing up idiots that get stabbed, you mean?’ Vesta pushed the small bottle of tonic, now half full, into his hands and stowed a few rolls of bandage in her pockets. ‘You learn a few things when you have to look after yourself.’
William bit his cheek, holding back a scorching retort. She didn’t have the first idea about what he’d been through. Softly, he touched his arm, remembering that humid, fishy hold where he’d first met Lamebrain and the scrape of the scaling knife over his flesh. Every scar was a lesson, every bad memory a distant nightmare that kept his senses sharp.
His musings were interrupted by a square of damp cloth being rubbed on his face. He jerked backwards and snatched it from Vesta. Stitching him up was one thing, but he was perfectly capable of washing his own damned face.
‘Just remember, you’re the sponsor and I’m the assassin.’ He shoved to his feet and tossed the soiled cloth to the floor, a black scowl over his split nose.
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ She huffed after him, trotting across the flop-house to the fancy door.
‘Exactly what I said; I’m in charge.’
They eased cautiously onto the veranda; at the far end was a flight of wooden steps leading into the courtyard. Seeing no-one else, William hastened down the stairway towards the back door of the hotel, skirting the empty stables and stone edged well. He could hear Vesta following closely behind, and ignored her hissed protests for an explanation.
She was trouble, though he’d known that when she’d first pointed out the Church of the Sacrificial Lambs. He’d hoped she at least had the sense not to run around shooting other people’s sponsors, or disappearing in the middle of a fight. Her position needed to be made clear. She was gun-fodder as far as every other assassin was concerned, and she had to be careful.
The Man-Butcher Prize Page 22