The Man-Butcher Prize

by Charles X Cross

  ‘Take it steady now lad,’ the retired assassin wheezed out between chokes of phlegm, ‘steady your breath, don’t rush it.’

  William held out his flintlock and measured his aim. The pistol felt right in his hand; he had grown into it, and its grip sat comfortably in his palm. He took note of where his previous two shots had punctured the painted board, just inches apart, and set his sights between them. Cathal started to cough and subdued himself with a thick woollen scarf over his mouth. Water dripped into a bucket from some salty stalactite that trailed from the arching brickwork. It fell right in William’s vision, made a constant plip-plip as it landed. He focused his mind, let all the distractions fall away.

  His finger tensed on the trigger.

  As to not so thoroughly best the old assassin, he had briefly considered shooting wide, but Cathal seemed as intent on his progress as he was. He supposed it was nice for the old man to pass on his craft, especially given his circumstances. William didn’t like to think about it, but the man had grown sickly, lost weight, and the white in his hair had spread. Even despite all this, he remained a consummate marksman, and an assassin to be respected. He deserved to be bested by nothing less than a perfect round.

  The bullet thumped a hole though the board, not quite in the dead centre, but almost perfectly between the last two of William’s shots, exactly where he had wanted it. A smile brightened his face; he had won, and though he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to replicate his success so easily, this was proof of his improvement.

  ‘Good shot.’ Cathal stood with great effort. ‘I dare say you would have beaten any killer here with a shot like that.’

  ‘I didn’t just beat any killer.’ William smirked. ‘I beat you.’

  ‘That you did, but you’d better not go bragging about beating some wheezing old man. Most don’t know I can still shoot, and I’d like to keep it that way. Retirement’s not really retirement if there’s folks out for your blood.’ Cathal picked up his crutch from against the wall and propped it under his armpit. ‘What say we head upstairs and get ourselves a drink? I’ll buy. It’s only fair, I don’t think I’m in much state to be polishing your boots, do you?’

  ‘No.’ William smiled, but faltered. He could hear distant footsteps hurrying down the passageway. Even so quiet, the sound of leather soles scuffing against dusty stone was unmistakable. ‘What’s that?’

  Cathal stopped his shambling and craned his ear to the sound, before concluding, ‘it’ll just be someone coming to test themselves at target practice.’

  He was about to resume his slow clamber back to the outpost, but William waved a hand for him to stop.

  ‘No, listen.’ William reloaded his flintlock. ‘They’re running.’

  Cathal cocked his head again then nodded in silent agreement.

  The pair readied themselves, fearing the worst – that the imperial guard had found the outpost and opted to raid it rather than extort it. Cathal leaned against the wall and readied his pistol. William ducked behind a barrel and aimed over the top, to where the passage curled out of sight at the top of a small flight of stairs. He held his pistol in both hands and let the firm wood sure his aim. Should he need to fire on whoever appeared around the corner, he would not let himself miss.

  The footsteps came clearer as they approached down the distant corridors and stairways. William steadied his breath.

  A figure emerged around the corner and barrelled down the steps. William’s finger tensed, degrees from releasing a bullet.

  ‘What in the hells are you doing?’ Marilyn staggered, almost falling over in her effort to stop. She had her skirts bunched in one fist and an envelope clutched tightly in the other.

  William’s trigger finger relaxed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Cathal smirked. ‘You could have gotten yourself killed, running up on us like that.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be so skittish in outpost grounds.’ She cocked an eyebrow and produced the letter, still panting from her dash. ‘William, it’s for you. It’s from that doctor; about Ojo.’

  William stood, leaving his pistol on the barrel, and took the envelope. He had received one such letter already, detailing Ojo’s performance in the competition; how he had sustained great injuries, including a badly fractured hand, but had ultimately come out on top. He had been informed that Ojo would be staying in Blackbile until he had mended, after which he would be returning home. He assumed this letter would be confirmation that his mentor had begun his journey and hurriedly opened it.

  His eyes flitted over the page, taking in the information relayed by the Blackbile doctor. As the smile faded and his eyes glazed over, the joviality between Cathal and Marilyn turned to concern.

  ‘What does it say?’ Cathal asked, his words catching phlegm in the back of his throat.

  ‘He got better, set off here with a guarded transport,’ William summarised the doctor’s letter, ‘but it sounds like bandits or highwaymen came looking for him; for his winnings. Or maybe an assassin was after the prestige… He’s dead.’

  Uttering the words made it all the more real than just reading the news on paper. William started to cry. His mentor was gone, the money and their easy life, lost; taken away by callous assassins or thieves.

  It was selfish but William pictured himself back out on the street, or in the clutches of another slaver. He had stayed in the outpost so long with these people, but never once had he considered fully what would happen should Ojo never return for him. Cathal didn’t mind teaching him to shoot, but he was well beyond taking him out of the outpost to kill, and Marilyn was simply a guild clerk.

  He slumped against the wall and slid down, curled himself into a ball on the floor, and wept.

  ‘What’s that?’ Marilyn approached William with a soft smile; her bun was loose and lopsided, with sprays of hair escaping in a messy halo. Her breath was a little heavier than usual and there was the faintest smell of sweat beneath her perfumes, exhausted from a day of aggressive cleaning.

  William looked up at her blankly. He hadn’t spoken to anyone much since he had received news of Ojo’s death. He had confided in Cathal, but the old assassin succumbed to his ailments a few weeks after the letter arrived. After that he had kept to himself, and for the most part he had been left alone. He had been in that state where grief longed to release as anger, and nobody had wanted to instigate him, not when he kept his flintlock so close. Now that rage had all ebbed away, leaving only a sour taste and longing for something more.

  ‘That paper,’ she asserted again, pressing one hand to the base of her spine and stretching the kinks free. ‘What is it?’

  ‘This?’ William brushed his thumb over the writing to straighten out the creases. The letters were neat and well formed, but dotted with over-zealous blotches of ink from pressing too hard with the pen. Ojo’s hand was rather distinctive; it was the address of his father. William had been asked to kill him should Ojo die.

  ‘It’s… nothing.’ He suppressed a shudder and turned over the note, making sure to conceal Ojo’s writing on the back. ‘Just one of the flyers from last year.’

  She scowled at it for a second, but decided against further questioning. She started taking glasses from a sink at the other side of the bar and drying them before lining them up on the back wall. ‘Would you be able to help out in the bar today? There’s a large band of guilders passing through tonight.’

  ‘I’d rather not.’ William crumpled the paper into his pocket. ‘I don’t want to hear about Ojo anymore. Everyone’s talking about him, laughing…’

  ‘Will.’ She leant forwards on the bar and fixed him with her best approximation of an assertive yet motherly glare. ‘This place isn’t exactly flush with grana; if you don’t help out at least a little I won’t be able to justify keeping you here. I know it’s hard for you-’

  ‘I know.’ He cut her short. ‘I can’t stay.’

  He scrunched the piece of paper in his pocket into an even tighter ball. He had
made a promise to his mentor. Killing Ojo’s father was saving him, in a way. Provided what Ojo had told him was true, and not some fiction to make his next kill pass with a little less guilt. It was just too hard for him to comprehend right now, he wasn’t ready to set out on his own and kill the only link he still had to his mentor.

  ‘I want a contract.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Somebody bad, someone that deserves it. I need to get back out there… before I lose what I’ve learned.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Marilyn looked surprised, but instinctively she moved from the sink and reached for a ledger under the bar. After all, assigning assassins their contracts was what the guild employed her to do.

  ‘I’m sure.’ He ran one hand through his hair and tapped his other nervously on the bar. He didn’t want to end up a beggar.

  Marilyn set the ledger on the ale-ringed oak and opened it to a page marked with a thin red ribbon. Slowly she traced down the list with her finger, skipping over the jobs that were crossed out, but reading each and every contract that hadn’t yet been fulfilled. She was almost to the end of the list before she found something suitable. She tapped the paper with her fingernail as she read the contract details over.

  ‘I think I’ve found one you might be interested in. I’ll get the full contract from the back.’ She slapped the ledger closed and stowed it under the bar. ‘Just promise me that you’ll try to keep safe, I don’t want you getting yourself killed.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ He shrugged, trying not to linger on it.

  1682

  William pictured Genevieve holding her prize aloft. Something twisted in his stomach, he felt ill. The notion of Vesta’s killer being lorded made him spit. He shored up his footing; gave in to his anger and venom.

  ‘I’m staying in.’ He sneered at the markswoman.

  The words had barely finished tripping off his tongue when Genevieve’s arm snapped up and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot tensed him, and for a moment he thought he was as good as dead, but the bullet flew wide. Genevieve’s hands moved quickly, and a second cartridge was already halfway loaded by the time he had his wits about him to move.

  Shooting to kill would have been the best decision to make at that moment, but William had been spooked by the markswoman’s readiness to take his head off; he dashed for cover. His leg pulsed with pain and he was certain to be leaking blood.

  Locating a thick sided refreshments cart, he raised his hands to shield his head and diverted his course towards it. Genevieve’s gun clapped a second shot, but yet again the bullet passed him by.

  He skidded behind the cart and took a frantic moment to collect himself. He had his gun, and a fair few cartridges left – perhaps six – but his fingers were quivering too much to count the contents of his pocket. He was still alive, but the markswoman might be his most difficult kill yet. She could have any number of cartridges, and was tipped to win the prize. His eyes began to dart about in panic, from the steaming river to the stand of VIP’s.

  All the brightest and best in the criminal underworld were sat watching him quiver behind a fruit stand. He could see referees gathered with the mayor and committee members to watch the final kill. He scoured the crowd for a friendly face or even a stranger that wasn’t party to the growing chant for Genevieve.

  His gaze passed over the assassins whose sponsors had been killed, the ones who hadn’t been so foolish as to continue, those who could be certain they would see a new day. He dreaded the chance of catching Goldin’s eye, and the disapproval that would surely linger there. The little man had told him not to waste his life, but he hadn’t heeded him.

  Then he found the dwarf in the crowd, nestled between two bandaged hitmen, cupping his hands and bellowing. His mouth moved, but the words were completely hidden behind the chant for Genevieve. Even so, William could tell it was encouragement. A slight smile pushed to his lips. He had to at least try to win this thing. He had to win, he was so close.

  Tentatively, he shuffled to the edge of the cart and peered around the side to relocate the markswoman. There was another clap and an urn of exotic pink juice smashed, spilling its sickly liquid down the cart siding. William flinched at the sound, but managed to keep his head out of cover long enough to spy Genevieve behind a heap of flour sacks. She was reloading again and keeping her position to fire, despite being far too distant to make an effective shot.

  It was then that it dawned on William; she wasn’t nearly as proficient with her sidearm as she had been with her rifle. They were fighting on his terms now. A giddy excitement fought to blossom and force a grin to his lips, but a calmer head prevailed. He couldn’t let her inexperience with flintlocks allow him to get sloppy.

  He took a moment to double check that his pistol was loaded and stuck his hand just outside of cover. Genevieve let off another shot; this one didn’t even strike the cart. She was as blinded by rage as he was nervous. He pushed himself to his feet, wobbling on his seeping leg, and made a move for the nearest cover. By the time she shot again, he was already out of sight.

  He skidded to his arse behind a broken barrel and stifled a yelp. A thick splinter had pierced the flesh between his finger and thumb as he thumped against the wood. He recoiled instinctively, but his skin snagged and was ripped into two flaps. His pistol clattered to the ground. He clenched his teeth, screwed up his eyes, and swallowed the pain. If Genevieve detected any weakness, she would come hunting.

  He sank low behind the barrel and took stock of the damage. Blood was flowing readily, covering his palm; his fingers were trembling. He pulled the bandages from around his leg to untie them; there was plenty of linen to share with a second wound. Blood oozed from his leg, but pressure wasn’t alleviated for long. He had soon unravelled a length of bandage, wrapped it around his hand, and retied what remained around his leg.

  His palm stung fiercely and the bulky linen stopped him from holding his pistol right, but with his lack of fresh salve that would have to do. There were more pressing matters at hand, primarily the worry of how far Genevieve might have advanced while he administered aid on himself.

  Though his off-hand was still a little numb, he gripped the pistol tightly, and was glad the limb seemed mostly functional. Doctor Barber had done a much better job patching it than Ojo had on his leg. He could barely even feel that his arm had been so recently stabbed.

  He peered between two planks, spying Genevieve just as she hid behind a crate. She was in range now; he just needed a moment to aim without being shot at. If she had to reload he would have time, but for that he needed to tempt her to shoot again. Though, at this more realistic range, there was a better chance she would actually hit him. He just hoped her grief and anger were keeping her reckless.

  He raised his gun into the air and twisted it against the setting sun so that it glinted towards Genevieve. She shot and missed again. He rounded the barrel, thrust to his feet and moved towards her. Blood spurted from his leg like bile from a bursting boil, and though the serum’s effect slowed any heavy flow, dread rippled through him. He raised his pistol, ready to shoot Genevieve right between the eyes, but his fingers lost their grip and the flintlock tumbled to the flagstones.

  Blood trickled from his bandaged wrist. A freshly made bullet wound became apparent in the serum-numbed flesh. When he taunted her, Genevieve had hit him. He fell to his knees and clutched for his pistol with both his near-useless hands.

  The flintlock was scooped up with his numb hand and wedged into the agonising grip of the other. He rolled onto his back with the pistol facing limply towards the crates.

  Genevieve emerged, her own weapon trained on him. She realised her advantage quickly; smirked as he scrambled in a pitiful pile on the floor, fumbling to pull his trigger – covered in blood, Barber’s serums and wet with tacky fruit juice. In her arrogance she waited a moment too long. The mouth of her flintlock found him as he sighted her; they pulled their triggers in unison.

  A hot ball of lead skewered under William’s ribs. Genevieve
was caught in her neck or shoulder and knocked backwards off her feet. The pair shrieked in gruesome harmony, concealed behind the joyous roar of the morbid crowd.

  William clutched his side; he could think about little other than the fact he was certain to die. His best hope for survival was to lay still and hope that he didn’t bleed out too quickly, but he couldn’t go without knowing Genevieve’s fate. Vesta wasted her life to get vengeance on her brother; it would all be in vain should her killer go unpunished.

  He pushed himself upright. His cries of pain had turned to a low guttural moan that built with each nausea-inducing motion. He picked up his pistol, tucked it under his armpit, and rolled over to push himself upright. Everything hurt so much that it was almost as if he hadn’t been injured at all. The pain was at the other side of a thin veil, and though he was pretty sure that meant he was a dead man walking, the calm of it was surprisingly comforting.

  He shuffled sluggishly around the crates, and reloaded his pistol as precisely as he could with the few fingers that still moved.

  Genevieve was sprawled on the floor, her hand clamped over her neck. The other was grasping for her pistol, but gave up once she caught sight of William looming over her.

  ‘Looks like you’ve won.’ She hissed blood between her pink stained teeth. ‘Unless you bleed to death before you can pull that trigger of yours.’

  William closed the pistol with great effort, sheering off the back of the cartridge and exposing the powder within to the strike of the flint. He aimed between her eyes.

  ‘You need to cock it.’ Blood pulsed between her fingers. ‘Don’t drop it now, or you’ll definitely die first.’