She nodded, but William got the impression that she wasn’t listening.
‘What did you say to him? Did you threaten him?’
‘No.’ She smirked. ‘I reminded him of old times, before he tore our lives apart, before he gave himself up for his life as a crook and fell for his own made-up doctrine. I don’t just want him to die, I want him to regret having lived so long.’
William nodded, but didn’t press any further. It was plain that it wasn’t possible to keep Vesta level-headed through talk, and if it was, he wasn’t silver tongued enough to do it. He simply had to hope they would kill her brother quickly so she could focus on something he valued higher than she did – keeping her life.
The far side of the river was rough even by Blackbile’s standards. While the town side had well-kept market stalls for cover, this side had a large gallows and stacks of tainted produce sold as fermented delicacies. A collection of hands and tongues had been nailed to a board near the gallows, and the bodies of drawn men had been left to rot. More conveniently, a selection of public toilet stalls hung out over the river so one could defecate straight into the water. William almost missed the pervading odour of sulphur present on the bridge.
There were less spectators here too, all crowded in alleyways and adjoining roads. Whereas the other side boasted erected bleachers and the awaiting winner’s podium. William wondered if he and the others selected for this side were chosen specifically because they were less likely to win. Then he remembered Genevieve had been chosen to start at this side of the river, and he reconsidered. To him it seemed she had been placed here with the lesser assassins so that she might more certainly survive until the final showdown. It was a move that ensured a few bets would come good on the part of the committee and a few other higher-up assassins.
The referees started to spread everyone out, placing each assassin at twenty yard intervals along the cobbled riverbank. William and Vesta followed directions up the roadway to stop beside the gallows. Red-face passed by, taking position forty yards further down the road.
‘We need to kill him,’ Vesta muttered.
Genevieve sashayed into the adjacent starting position between William and Red-face, shooting a sly wink and a casual smile. William nodded a greeting back to her, swallowing his trepidation. She would not go easy on him again, and she only had done so before to avoid a barrage from the mad bomber. With Ottilie on the far side of the river, Genevieve would have no qualms in shooting both him and Vesta. The only way to fight back was to kill her sponsor. He wondered if he had what it took to kill her son; he was just a young boy.
‘Five minute warning.’ A referee with a small wooden wheelbarrow stopped in front of William and fished a bag from a pile of similar hessian sacks. ‘This is for you.’
William took the sack as it was bundled into his hands.
‘Sign here.’ The referee thrust a board and parchment at him, nearly forcing the sack from his hands, then slapped a glass dip-pen on top. William scrawled his name on the dotted line and the referee was off towards Genevieve without another word.
He delved his hand into the sack, retrieving the flintlock and ammunition along with a bottle of salve and roll of bandage he hadn’t actually asked for. He wondered if Barber had slipped them in personally.
‘This is for you.’ He passed the pistol to Vesta. ‘It won’t match mine, but it should do better than the one you stole off the privateer.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled and fumbled open the flintlock, loading it as he charged his own. She affixed it to her belt then quickly checked the knife under the folds of her dress.
He tossed the sack into the space under the gallows and stood up straight. As he pocketed his share of ammunition a little confidence washed over him. They were well prepared and motivated. Vesta’s luck and his skill just had to withstand the next few hours.
1675
Valiance, the second imperial city, had been the Garlish capital before the country had joined the empire, and it was even more sprawling than Vitale. Ruled by both a lord mayor and high cardinal, the city boasted some of the finest residences and the largest cathedral north of Baignon. The first shells of impressive warehouses, mills and factories were under construction, dwarfing their timber ancestors and promising prosperity for all.
As they had entered the city, William was awed by the vast blocks and iron sheets hauled high on ropes thicker than legs. He spotted men clambering around high beams without ropes or harnesses, like ants round twigs. Though the sight of them made his stomach flip, the workers seemed completely at ease, even resting to eat their midday tiffin at such a height.
Ojo left the industrial district behind, and took a detour through a vast estate of parks and extravagant townhouses, the cathedral dominating the skyline all the while. Though William wished they would, they never passed close by it. Instead, their horse and cart blended into a steady stream of similar delivery vehicles as they passed an impressive statue of the new gods – Luck and Fate.
In William, the thought of Valiance conjured childhood legends. The place was a vista of what a united empire could achieve; a skyline of high vaulted roofs and glinting spires of supplementary chapels in every district. Robed and sandaled monks bustled through the streets and all manner of business people darted in between. There was a promise made here, that anyone could make their fortune; shops for artists, poets, potters, and masons stood testament to the fact.
Ojo insisted the opposite, rather hampering William’s wonder. According to his master, this was where the religiously brainwashed made pilgrimage, only to be trapped in sweatshops or mines to afford living in the outskirt slums. William doubted his assessment. From what he could glean, Ojo followed some old Conejan doctrine that not even the Conejans believed anymore. It was a widely accepted truth that The New Gods had killed the old, and it was pointless to believe in anything else; certainly Ojo’s bitterness about this coloured his opinion of the marvellous city.
‘How are you feeling?’ Ojo tossed a glance at William, but couldn’t deviate his attention too much from the busy thoroughfares.
William had done the lion’s share of the killing over the past six months. No longer finishing half-dead targets, he had progressed to completing the job from start to finish, all under the assassin’s careful supervision. He had become rather good at wrangling men to the floor and throttling the life from them. Although he stood at only three quarters the height of most, the work and time on the road had strengthened him.
‘I feel well.’ He nodded. ‘Better.’
Ojo had been wrong in saying that killing got easier. William felt the same pang of regret each time he took a life, but he was getting better at swallowing that feeling and putting it behind him. The death and the dead no longer plagued him.
‘I’m glad.’ Ojo slowed the cart to a stop outside an unmarked building in a procession of uninteresting businesses and more unkempt homes. They had arrived in a poorer end of the city, though it was no worse than some of the villages they had passed through. ‘We have a big week ahead of us; you especially.’
The assassin’s mysterious demeanour was more worrying than it was exciting. William slid off the back of the cart, grabbing his satchel as he did so. While Ojo had confiscated his pistol after the incident in Henningley, he had managed to earn it back and had been training with it at any given opportunity. It seemed that Ojo didn’t mind the added protection of the firearm now that he was on an imperial list of wanted men. It was obvious to the pair of them – no matter how much Ojo tried to convert him – that once William was ready to set out on his own he would shoot men instead of using his bare hands.
As Ojo clambered down to the street, a man strolled from a narrow passageway between two of the grey buildings. William grabbed for his pistol, paused for Ojo’s instruction to shoot; he didn’t want to cause another scene that saw them run out of town, not unless it was his master’s decision. Yet Ojo was not surprised. The two men exchanged quiet words and the
cart was passed into the newcomer’s care; William secured the pistol in his satchel.
Then, rushing after his master up a short flight of steps, he quickly neatened his dirty clothes and caught up just as the front door was pulled open from inside. The assassin entered without a word.
Muted light spilled through three storeys of windows, visible only for the absence of floors. Every wall, strut and staircase had been smashed out, leaving a dusty room near thirty feet in height. In the centre, two thick beams bore the load of the roof.
‘Good morning.’ Ojo was almost jovial in his address.
William’s attention snapped away from the rafters to three heavily armed men, and a trio of battered leather armchairs. A short way behind them was a stairwell, leading into the bowels of the building. The men nodded and murmured a similarly cordial greeting, a gesture that felt out of place from such mean-looking folk.
These people knew Ojo, and his business, and seemed as unperturbed by this knowledge as a baker might be with a flour trader. William trotted after his master, intrigued by the new aspect of the assassin’s life.
The stairway was narrow and steep, and the treads were cluttered with rubble and splinters of broken wood. William braced himself against each side, drawing runnels in the damp-salted walls and determined not to stumble. Perhaps if he had not been in the shadow of his master, the way would have been easier.
Soon enough they entered a cramped room, dimly lit by a single tallow lantern set on a scuffed console table. He supposed this was meant to be welcoming, after the heavies upstairs and the treacherous route down, but the wilted pot plant beside it made the whole thing feel much more sinister. The iron-banded door opposite, however, was a fairly standard security arrangement, at least for anyone with something important to hide. Just below Ojo’s eye line was a small hatch, latticed with bars. It was closed.
Impatiently, Ojo rapped his signet ring on the metal frame, two dull thumps that went unanswered. The assassin exhaled nasally.
‘Ojo Azul,’ he announced himself loudly, ‘I’m expected.’
The little room darkened and William realised they had been followed by one of the guards from above. A hulking brute with a prominent chin and steely glint in his eye barred the way back. His meaty fist curled around an ornate club, a claw clutching a sphere of dark stone, pitted with use. There was no doubt that if their entry was denied, William’s little head would be cracked wide open with it.
The hatch on the door slid open and a single cursory eye cast up and down the assassin. The face that accompanied the eye was deeply rutted with wrinkles and scars, and the sore wound where a second eye had once been was sorely lacking an eye patch. Not wishing to draw any attention, William focussed on the plant, queasy at the sight of such malady.
‘Who’s the boy?’ the voice gurgled like a spluttering drain.
‘My apprentice.’ Ojo proudly shunted William to the fore. The firm grip on his shoulder gave him confidence to meet the judgemental eye peering down at him.
William fixed that eye with his best stern look, his jaw tipped upwards and his back stretched just a little straighter. Bravado was important in situations like this; he was a killer now and refused to be underestimated.
The man grumbled something unintelligible and the hatch slid shut. Bolts clattered on the other side and with the squeak of poorly oiled hinges the door swung open.
A narrow landing gave way to a spiral set of wide brick steps, well-lit and girded by a sturdy polished hand rail of dark wood. William didn’t give the one-eyed man a second look as Ojo lead the way, keeping his attention on the route ahead.
At the bottom, through a set of heavy velvet curtains, the cellar opened into an extensive catacomb with vaulted red-brick ceilings and warmly glowing lanterns. Mismatched tables and chairs crowded any space that wasn’t occupied by gargantuan casks. The containers of foreign liquors loomed up to the ceiling and served as dividers between ill-disposed patrons. A few men sat and drank in isolation, each glaring or grimacing at the new arrivals.
Ojo approached a highly glossed bar that seemed to have been ripped out of another tavern by the rough edges at each end and scuffs across its front. He stopped at a pair of stools opposite a barmaid. Before greeting her, he turned, slipped his hands beneath William’s arms and hefted him onto one of the high barstools. William sneered at him, feeling belittled, he was a damned killer after all and Ojo should respect him as an equal.
‘Good day Mr Azul,’ the woman offered a brusque greeting as she procured three glasses and a pair of brown envelopes from beneath the bar.
‘And you,’ Ojo grunted offhandedly. He took the envelopes and opened one immediately, more interested in his correspondence than any idle talk.
Two glasses were filled with vinegary smelling liquor and one of them was slid under William’s nose. He had always wanted to try an adult drink, but didn’t want to risk angering his master by not asking permission first.
‘Here.’ Ojo tossed the letter over. ‘Read that and drink up.’
William took the letter off the bar and flattened it where it had levered itself closed on well-worn folds. He started to read, realising quickly that it was the detail of a new job. One of the magnates in the city had died, and his two eldest sons had been passed over for their inheritance. An entire empire of industry, gold, and property had fallen to the third in line: their target.
‘What do you think?’ Ojo was reading the second of the letters, but paused to take a sip of his drink. ‘It’s not a job many could take, but it pays very highly. Though the target might seem young to me and many other assassins; maybe he does not to you.’
‘I’m not sure.’ William looked back to his own letter, noticing that the target was only one year senior to himself. The thought of killing someone so young made him feel ill, compounded with the fact the boy was completely innocent. He just had to think of a way to reject Ojo without provoking one of his tirades.
‘I need to tell you something William.’ Ojo set down the second letter. ‘I’m sure you know by now I’ve been funnelling our pay into medicine, but not quite for why. My patron, he’s not well. I got into this damned business to save him, but the elixir just keeps going up in price. I’d hoped you might help increase our profitability, and you have, but it’s not enough.’
William pursed his lips, feeling his opportunity to reject the contract slipping away.
‘I’ve made a deal with the supplier of my patron’s elixirs. He will supply my patron with free doses until the day he dies if I pay for one expedition to the east for him. It won’t be cheap and I need the money now.’ Ojo drained the last of his liquor and pushed the empty glass out for the woman behind the bar to refill. ‘This job will set us free from my financial obligations. We won’t need to kill as much, and we can live far easier lives.’
William considered a moment. He really didn’t want to do it, but in doing so he might save many more. Though he knew Ojo might simply be appealing to his distaste for death. It was too much to think about all at once, and Ojo was desperate for not only an answer, but the right answer.
‘I’m sorry to bother you with this Mr Azul.’ The barmaid returned, a square of good paper in her hand. ‘A few of the guilders from Blackbile came by yesterday. They’ve been going to all the hideouts and spreading the word about this year’s prize; I just wondered if you might be interested.’
William was impressed that she did not falter under Ojo’s withering stare. Instead, she set the small painted flyer on the bar and cocked an eyebrow. ‘This year the winner gets gold.’
Ojo picked up the leaflet and looked it up and down. He sneered, and much to the barmaid’s distress, screwed it up and dropped it into his empty glass.
‘They say it’s the best thing to do if you’re backed into a corner,’ she tried.
‘Fortunately for us, we aren’t in such dire straits. Fetch a bottle of grade-four ether, then we’ll settle up and be on our way. We have a job to be getting on wit
h.’
‘Certainly, Mr Azul.’ The woman bobbed her head and strode to a steel door, fitted with complicated locks. Keys rattled, but the mechanisms were well oiled. Only when she had slipped through into the store room and locked herself in did Ojo continue.
‘You’ll do it then?’
It was as much a command as a question, and William felt he had no other option than to say, ‘yes.’
The woman returned from the back room and set a small glass bottle on the table. The clear liquid glugged sluggishly from side to side. It was slower than water, more like thin syrup that left an oily sheen on the glass. Ojo tipped a fist of imperial grana from a pouch and passed them to her with a quiet thank you.
‘This is ether.’ Ojo slid the bottle over to William.
‘What’s it for?’ He tilted the swaying contents to better examine it.
‘The barber surgeons use a similar variant as an anaesthetic. This version is far more volatile, concocted by one of the guild’s doctors. It puts a person to sleep very quickly, and shortly after, brings the inner workings of their body to a halt.’ Ojo shunted the empty glasses aside and leant on the bar, looking at the ether with malicious glee. ‘It’s painless, hard to trace, and the tool you’ll be using in your upcoming job.’
William pressed his thumb on the cork to ensure that the bottle was firmly sealed, then set it on the bar, too afraid to toy with it. He watched the oily liquid settle and thought about his contract. All he had to do was sneak into a boy’s house and drape an ether soaked cloth over his mouth. A painless death for enough money to see him and Ojo right.
‘I can do it,’ he affirmed, ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘You’ll make an assassin yet.’ Ojo clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s find somewhere to sleep tonight; a hotel. I think I can stretch our money to that.’
William wanted to thank Ojo, but he wasn’t sure exactly why. Maybe it was because the assassin seemed less disappointed in him, or because he was maturing into the killer he feared he might never become. He didn’t voice his gratitude, but deep inside he felt as though things were starting to smooth out between them, and that was cause enough to be happy.
The Man-Butcher Prize Page 29