1668
Mayor Perrin sweated profusely and mopped his hairline with a spotted handkerchief. He wore a large pantomime grin for the benefit of the bloodthirsty audience. Over the short distance his efforts were enough to trick the crowd, but Terrowin could tell the man had no stomach for the swathes of viscera running through the square.
It had taken the afternoon for volunteers to clear the majority of the carnage. They were methodical in their work, battlefield professionals as it were, able to strip a body of anything worth salvaging and direct the loot through the necessary dealers in record time. Every trinket, weapon, bead and button was accounted for by three clip-board-toting invigilators with hawkish eyes; any coin recouped bolstered guild coffers.
Once all of the remains were carted away, the mayor took his cue, and led the last two assassins from the shade of the town hall. Blood pooled between the cobbles like glistening puddles after a spring shower, punctuated with spatters of minced flesh; a perfect setting for a duel that would never be forgotten.
‘This is about the middle.’ The mayor nodded, dabbing his brow for a final time.
Terrowin grinned at Beechworth, who imparted only a brief and anxious glance in return. It did seem like an oddly organised way to bring an end to the chaos, but all the same, it was exciting. Terrifying. He would have expected the noble assassin to be more relaxed; the blue-bloods were renowned for duelling, though it took an iron will to stand firm and shoot true in such circumstances.
‘I’m glad to be bringing proceedings to a close personally!’ The mayor looked more uncomfortable than Beechworth, as if he might vomit if he looked at the wrong crevice in the cobbles. He watched the spectators gathered in the bleachers instead – any corpses amongst them diligently removed.
‘We will follow traditional Garlish procedures,’ the mayor declared. ‘Ten paces each. Once a duellist’s foot touches the ground on the tenth step they may turn and take their shot.’
The victor would be determined as the last man standing, or the least wounded if they both happened to strike true. Usually, at such close quarters, it all depended on who fired first.
‘How are you feeling?’ Beechworth’s usually acerbic drawl was muted.
‘Ecstatic.’ Terrowin rubbed his hands together, trying to dispel some of his surplus energy. ‘I’ve never duelled before.’
The heady mix of tonics and quick-fix salves on Terrowin’s wound, combined with the crowd and the imminence of his death, was going straight to his head. He waved at the bleachers, threw a few kisses their way, inciting uproar and cheers. Even Beechworth raised his hand, refined compared to Terrowin’s mania.
‘Gentlemen! Back to back, if you please?’ The mayor directed them to their positions. ‘Make ready your weapons, then march with my count, understood?’
‘Yes sir!’ Terrowin stamped to attention with his back just brushing Beechworth’s shoulder and held his pistol tightly to his chest. He clicked the hammer into place ‘Ready.’
‘Man-butcher…’ Beechworth spoke quietly as he cocked his rifle. ‘This courtyard is rather big, wouldn’t you say? Why don’t we make this a little more interesting?’
‘I’m all ears.’ Terrowin angled his chin to better hear over the crowd’s encouragement.
‘Why don’t we throw caution to the wind and walk fifteen paces instead of the conventional ten? We’re both good shots; this whole thing will be over all too quickly if we only take ten.’ Beechworth’s nerves had been supplanted with the exhilaration that shivered down their spines in mutual glee. ‘What do you say?’
Terrowin considered that the assassin was simply trying to give himself an advantage; his rifle would be far better over thirty paces than a pistol. But he had never shied away from a challenge, and the underdog always won in the end.
‘Deal.’ Terrowin nodded eagerly, already imagining the scene as two crack-shots were let loose on each other.
‘One.’ The mayor started counting.
Terrowin leapt a full yard, bounding like a greyhound released from its trap. His heart was thumping in his neck and ears, every nerve tingling. It was impossible to be more excited without rupturing something. Sombrely, Beechworth took a single measured pace.
‘Two.’
Terrowin crunched a bloodied mulch of ash and sawdust with his next step, straining to match the noble assassin's slow pace.
‘Three… Four…’
It occurred to Terrowin that Walter wasn’t aware he was now supposed to be counting to fifteen, but imagined that he and Beechworth could continue the count themselves. It would be a tremendous surprise for the audience, and would drum up the tension to unknown levels.
‘Five…’
An eager spectator thumped his boots on the bleachers, a noise rapidly emulated like an ill-timed marching band, as people rapped and banged on any surface they could find. Terrowin felt a wave of fanatic adoration. The crowd cheered his name, they cheered for Beechworth too, and they screamed for the barbaric joy of it.
‘Six.’ The mayor's voice was almost lost in the din. ‘Seven.’
Nearly halfway. Terrowin jammed his lips together, puffing his cheeks and grinding his teeth in an effort to restrain his maniacal laughter. There was nothing like the thrill of gambling with life and death.
‘Eight.’
The drumming and cheering trailed off, the anticipation becoming too great. There was nothing anyone could do but wait and watch.
‘Nine… Ten.’
Terrowin took another eager step forward, only five more to go.
He heard Beechworth’s foot strike the ground, and then a loud scrape as it was twisted in the dirt. That exact sound had been part of Terrowin’s life since before he could walk, when his mother had dazzled crowds with circus trick-shots. It was the same noise made at the very moment she would pivot on her heel, and sight-unseen blast an apple off an unwilling participant’s head.
It seemed Beechworth had tricked him, and Terrowin would soon meet the same fate as those delicate apples; blasted to a hundred pieces and dashed on the dirt.
He whirled around to face the lord, only a fraction of a second behind. Beechworth’s rifle came up. Terrowin took his aim. Gunpowder clapped, and before Terrowin could squeeze his trigger, hot lead punctured his eye and exploded through the back of his skull.
1682
William and Vesta entered the tower chamber. In the low light, dust hung thick in the air and clumped around well-defined footprints on gnarled wooden boards.
Columns shadowed the room further, blocking most of the meagre light that bled through the narrow, slit windows. They held up a maze of walkways overhead, weaving around vast cogs and coils that made up the clock mechanism. A low whir and ratcheting click were a constant, occasionally accompanied by the clunk of a large gear or twang of a spring.
Lord Beechworth was visible through the door, studying the smouldering wreckage his bomb had caused. When he seemed satisfied the tower hadn’t caught fire – and the minced Lambs below were no threat – he followed them inside. He slung his rifle on a strap over his shoulder and rolled his shirt sleeves up as he walked, positively nonchalant in the company of a rival assassin. A confidence only afforded to a man with a living sponsor.
‘The pair of you look…’ Beechworth wet a dry crack in his lip, searching for something more polite to say than he was no doubt thinking. ‘Tired. Have you been running about since we started?’
‘More or less.’ William shrugged.
‘Better come with me; we’ve plenty of food, and wine – helps still the old trigger finger – or perhaps an elderflower cordial instead?’ Beechworth strode ahead into the gloom. ‘Just here, behind this stack of parts.’
William scowled; only a lord would be having a damned picnic up here while others died in the streets. The wealthy toad would never understand the struggle of entering the prize wielding an antique pistol and an empty purse. Still, he wouldn’t refuse food and drink on principle; that sort of nonsense woul
d only invite death.
Navigating a dozen wooden crates, spilling over with brass trinkets and clock spares, they entered a meagre pool of candle light and joined a rather cosy gathering.
‘William!’ Dr Barber exclaimed. He sat on a red and black chequered rug, withered legs stretched out beneath him, body propped against a wicker hamper. It was strange that he was on the floor, as a wooden-framed wheelchair with little iron-spoked wheels had been pushed to the back of the crate heap and abandoned there, empty.
‘It’s so good to see you well,’ the doctor added, ‘and Vesta too!’
Confusion and a modicum of delight lifted William’s dour mood; he couldn’t help but respond, ‘how did you get here?’
‘It’s a long story.’ Barber picked up a heel of bread with the larger of his withered hands. He bit off a piece of crust and crunched it between misshapen teeth. ‘My friend over there is not too reliable when it comes to directions.’
He indicated with the crust to the pooling shadows beyond the candle light. William could just pick out the hunched slave, his one bulging eye and bony frame. Lamebrain appeared more subdued than he had been in the chaos outside and picked slowly at the carcass of a cooked chicken; grease dribbled down his chin. It was just possible to hear him muttering about fish, presumably a result of William’s arrival, but he seemed contented to stay in his corner and eat.
‘I saw the pair staggering about.’ Beechworth set his rifle against the stack of crates. He sat cross-legged beside an old woman opposite Barber on the rug.
William hadn’t noticed her at first, dismissing her as a pile of blankets, but now he spotted her sagging face amongst the wools. She was pale and wheezed softly. He recognised her as a matter of fact. It was the old woman he had met at the opening ceremony who had been so proud to sponsor her grandson. He reasoned that the abandoned wheelchair must have been her own. Beechworth set a hand to her forehead, brushed a sweat-lank strand of hair from her face; he tutted and shook his head before returning to his tale.
‘I couldn’t likely leave the good doctor out there to get shot, could I? I went out, collected the pair of them; which was a task in itself – that half-headed chap is too skittish by half.’ Beechworth picked up a small brown vial and fed the contents to his grandmother. ‘So I brought them back here; I’d say it’s the safest place in town, outside of the havens of course.’
Beechworth corked the little bottle and set it back on the rug, then took up a small plate, decorated with painted holly and golden berries. ‘Please, sit, you must be starved! Do help yourselves.’
‘What if the Lambs come back?’ William looked across at Vesta, but she was already settling herself down beside Barber.
‘Those stairs creak like you wouldn’t believe, and the first flight is completely destroyed now.’ Beechworth used a small prong to collect a trio of cured meats from a platter and added them to his plate with a small bunch of grapes and heel of bread. ‘The spymaster himself couldn’t get in here unheard; we might as well relax.’
‘Please join us, William,’ Barber encouraged him, patting a space on the blanket.
William saw no reason not to, other than this whole situation seeming completely incongruous. He shrugged, sat down, and filled a plate for himself. Barber offered wine, but he declined in favour of a glass flute of cordial; the calming effect of alcohol on his trigger finger would prove dangerous given his diminished supply of blood.
‘What are these?’ He held up a bowl of deep green grape-looking things, glossed with golden oil.
‘Olives,’ Vesta rolled her eyes.
‘Finest Vitulan olives.’ Beechworth skewered one with a steel cocktail stick. ‘Franccino, I believe.’
William added half a dozen to his plate and popped one in his mouth, instantly regretting his decision to commit to so many. It was salty and not at all normal tasting, and he almost broke a tooth on the pit.
‘My young Barbie used to love olives.’ Barber sighed. ‘It was a shame I had to lose him. Still, his brothers await me at the workshop. The sooner I get back there the better, I shouldn’t have left my work for so long.’
The doctor cast a wistful gaze around the shadowy chamber and added, ‘this little foray was… ill advised.’
‘Events have not unfolded according to any of our plans.’ Beechworth looked down at his grandmother; she had started to shiver. William was unsure if that was an improvement on her previous pallid rigor, but he suspected not. ‘The old girl wanted to go out with a bang…hardly likely now; she can’t even hold her head up, let alone a rifle. Nothing short of nightmarish getting here, and I had to haul that damned chair up.’
William glanced at the cumbersome wheeled chair; thinking of all those tower steps made him dizzy.
‘What about you, William?’ Beechworth asked, catching him off guard.
‘I guess you know who I am; that I’ve been blacklisted? I hoped to clear my name, get back to business again. Earn a fair wage doing what I’m good at…’
William realised he was sat eating a light supper with two of the most powerful guilders; two men who could reverse his fate and get him on the whitelist. Though he wasn’t so sure that contract-killing was the right career path anymore.
‘We’re going to kill my brother,’ Vesta added darkly. She crunched a fig-topped cracker as she said it; so matter of fact in her delivery. ‘I can’t imagine how many people he’s killed, or convinced to sacrifice themselves. He leads the Lambs here – that’s why they’re after us – and we won’t rest until he’s dead.’
William winced; he didn’t possess the same bloody resolve as Vesta in the matter, but he didn’t discourage her.
‘Once he’s dead, and this folly of a competition is done, I can start a fresh life.’
There was a marked moment of silence where everyone present elected not to mention that she was likely to die. Then Beechworth set down his plate, wiped his hands on a monogrammed napkin, and stood up.
‘I’ll keep vigil for a while. If I spot any Lambs coming, I’ll let you know.’ He shifted his gaze to the doctor. ‘Watch over my grandmother would you?’
‘Certainly.’ Barber nodded.
Beechworth pulled on a thick grey overcoat, shouldered his rifle, and slipped into the gloom. His footsteps echoed upwards to the clock balcony, a door opened and shut, and he was gone.
After that, Barber tried to lift the mood by telling tales of previous prize winners. He focused mainly on triumphs against the villainous dead, and in the end managed to engage William and Vesta in the good-hearted thrill of it. Lamebrain inched closer until he finally slumped beside the old woman and took more than his share of remaining food. It was unclear if he understood exactly what was happening, but his eye gleamed in a way William had not seen before.
Some hours and glasses of Beechworth’s wine later, Vesta fell asleep. She pulled a corner of the rug over for warmth and curled up beside William. He wanted to stay awake and alert to protect her as his sponsor, but even without the wine he was exhausted. As another of Barber’s tales drew to a close – of Man-Butcher Karin and how he had preserved her from death with a very particular and entirely secret cocktail of tonics – William followed Vesta to sleep.
It was some time before he woke, but when he did he felt surprisingly well rested; he had expected the effects of his injury to linger much longer. Perhaps he had lost less blood than he thought, what with Vesta insisting he keep the blade in place for so long to stem the flow.
Looking up to the light shafting through the high window slits, he could assess it was morning. He felt a pang of shame for succumbing to his exhaustion, but now at least he knew Beechworth could be trusted. By accident he had given the man ample opportunity to kill his sponsor. Vesta was still sleeping but more importantly, still alive.
With care he untangled himself from Vesta, who had opted to use him as a pillow, and sat up to stretch the kinks from his back. Barber was snoring and Beechworth was still nowhere to be seen. The old woman an
d Lamebrain, neither of whom were particularly good prospects for conversation, were both sleeping too. The former was wheezing harder than ever; the latter had returned to his corner and curled up with an empty bottle.
William stood, and as he stretched again, he noticed his pistol was not at his hip. It didn’t take him long to find; the flintlock had been discarded on the floorboards just beyond the old woman. It appeared that nobody had tampered with it, but the fact remained that somebody had lifted it from his sleeping body. That put him on edge, made him suspicious of everyone in the room, no matter how enfeebled. As a precaution, he broke open the pistol, took out the cartridge and replaced it with another from his pocket. All in all, he only had four left, and that was if he trusted the one in the pistol when it was taken.
‘I should have a few of those,’ Beechworth spoke from behind William, making him jump. ‘Mine only takes copper, but nanny’s old-fashioned; she wanted to use my father’s rifle. That pistol looks like a large bore; it’ll probably take what cartridges she has left.’
‘Thank you.’ William stuffed his cartridges into a deep pocket, making sure to keep the one he didn’t trust separate. He wondered if the old marksman had been in here long, he certainly hadn’t heard him approach. Perhaps it was Beechworth that had lifted his pistol, and had abandoned it when he stirred. It didn’t make any sense, if the lord wanted him dead, he would have done it by now.
‘Here we are.’ Beechworth pulled a handful of cartridges from a small satchel that had been deposited by the crates. ‘I’ve seen movement in the streets; more Lambs are coming and they’re being incredibly cautious not to get in my line of sight. Prepare yourself as best you can.’
William woke Vesta and ensured she had enough ammunition; by then the doctor and Lamebrain had risen. Barber looked worried when he heard the news, but couldn’t do much about it, and the hunched slave was more concerned with breakfast. Reluctantly, Vesta stayed in the chamber, on the proviso that William would fetch her the minute her brother showed up. William agreed, but he didn’t think the zealot would show his red face unless forced to.
The Man-Butcher Prize Page 25