Assassin and His Sister , livre ebook

Andrews UK - William Stafford

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98 pages

English

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Italy during the Renaissance and Sparafucile and his sister strive to make a living bumping off any unfortunate rich man who happens across their path. The trouble is: as an assassin, Sparafucile is not what you might call competent and his unpredictable sister seems to be spiralling out of control. Inspired by characters in Verdi's Rigoletto, this is an action-packed, fun-filled visit to a world of intrigue and betrayal, from the author of Leporello on the Lam.

Sujets

Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)

Fantasy

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	11 mars 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781783330409
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0150€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Title Page
THE ASSASSIN AND HIS SISTER
A Comedy of Murders
by
William Stafford

Publisher Information
Published in 2013 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
The right of William Stafford to be identified as the Authors of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
Copyright © 2013 William Stafford
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Dedication
For my sisters

Uno.
The hunchback wipes the hippocras from his blubbery lower lip with the back of his hand. His face is lopsided and his eyes are wont to look at two different things at the same time. One of them, the brighter, is trained on me. The other is looking now at the table, now at his goblet but its twin stays firmly fixed on my face.
I have won his attention. He is keen to hear the rest of my sales pitch. He lifts the goblet to his crooked, fleshy mouth and waves at me with his free hand, a gesture of encouragement.
I glance around. The taverna is busy but there is no one else in our corner. All the same I lower my voice. It adds to the effect, I find. Makes me sound more serious. More professional.
“You have a rival,” I say in even tones. “I can rid you of him.”
I toss back my cloak to reveal the hilt of the dagger in my belt. Just as quickly I cover it again but I am certain at least one of his eyes saw it.
“Your woman lives with you,” I continue. I have seen him many times pass the taverna and on to his humble abode on the outskirts of the Jewish ghetto. The woman in question is young and pretty. Too good for this asymmetrical toad. How does he keep a woman like that? I doubt he lavishes money on her if his current appearance and the location of their dwelling are anything to go by.
The mention of his woman makes him tense. For a moment it looks as though he will crush that goblet in his broad fist. He struggles to keep an even temper and asks me how much my services will cost.
“A trifle,” I shrug. This confuses him. I name my price lest he think I work for desserts.
His eyebrow arches like a startled caterpillar.
“When do I have to cough up?” he asks. “I don’t carry that much cash.” He sounds almost apologetic.
I smile.
“Half before, the other half when the job is done.”
“The ‘job’...” he mulls this over, both amused and disgusted.
I wait. I believe I have lost him. I should never have approached him. I am about to stand up and leave him in peace with his cheap, spiced wine when he leans towards me.
“How’d you do it?” his voice rasps. Wine and spittle drip from that fat lip. I cringe. It had better not land on my sleeve.
I shrug. Perhaps I should keep these trade secrets to myself but I reckon I will lose this fish unless I can offer more enticing bait.
“Sometimes in the street,” I say casually. “A crowd is the best cover. Mostly, at my own lodgings.”
This surprises him. I really am opening up a vista into a whole new world for him. How different I must seem from the prancing ninnies at the palazzo !
“I have an accomplice,” I tell him. “My sister. She dances. She lures them back to our place. I catch them unawares. Bish, bosh ! Job’s done!”
“When you say ‘ bish, bosh’ ...?” He twirls his hand, inviting me to elaborate.
“This,” I sweep back my cape. My sword is resting against my right leg. I am left-handed, you see; he wasn’t expecting to see it there. “My best friend.”
He looks at me strangely but I can see he is still thinking about it.
“So....” I prompt, “May I be of service to you?”
He shakes his head. “Not now.” He struggles to his feet, leaning heavily on the table. Beneath his raggedy, patchwork cloak I catch a glimpse of dingy red and yellow, the fading motley of his own profession.
“Well, if you’re sure....” I refrain from assisting him. He jars the table with his great belly, knocking over the bottle of wine. The thin, watered-down liquid spills over the table. Some of it splashes on my hose before I can whip my legs out of harm’s way. I suppress a shudder.
“Maybe one day,” he nods. I get the idea he is fobbing me off but then his eye swivels and catches mine. “Soon,” he adds, and I feel better. I may have found a new client after all.
He is squeezing his uneven bulk around the table. His left foot drags across the floor.
“I’ll find you here, Mister...?”
“Sparafucile,” I supply my name without thinking. I could bite my own tongue off sometimes.
“You’re a foreigner,” he observes. “You were not born in Mantova.”
He speaks with the confidence of a fortune teller. I can see there is no point lying.
“From Borgogna,” I admit. “Is that a problem?”
His slab of a hand dismisses this notion and me with it. One eye rolls and sets itself on a course for the exit. As he waddles away, like a hayrick carried by drunken midgets, he mutters with mounting venom something about a bastard, an old bastard who has cursed him. He doesn’t stop and look over his shoulder - I don’t know if such a thing is even possible for him - but I guess he will come looking for me before long. As soon as he can get half my fee together, I expect.
I can feel the wine has seeped through my hose. They are already stained with pink blotches. That’s the third pair this week. Honestly!
I stay for another drink, casting about for more custom. There’s nothing doing. I decline an invitation to a cock fight; I prefer not to gamble my hard-earned coins away on rigged matches. Besides, Mad would murder me. Every scudo I make goes to her. I keep nothing for myself. I have to argue and plead for every new shirt and every new pair of tights. My sister thinks I’m a fool where money is concerned. In fact, my sister thinks I’m a fool, full stop.
I leave the taverna and wrap my cloak around myself against the chilly night air. The narrow streets are quiet as I wend my way home. I am known in this quarter; the cutpurses know better than to accost me. I like to think this is because of my reputation as an assassin-for-hire and not because they know my sister has already claimed all my money.
No one tangles with Mad.
***
Someone is tangling with Mad! I can tell there’s something afoot as I approach our house. There’s several lanterns burning and there’s crashing and banging and shouting going on. I let myself in, to find my sister, her chemise half off and her red hair loose and flowing like her head is on fire. She is doing her best to keep items of furniture between herself and a portly gentleman whose breeches are around his ankles.
She sees me come in and sends me a look that says both ‘At last!’ and ‘Where the hell have you been?’
“Oh no!” she gasps, feigning horror. “My husband!”
The gentleman glances at me with a dismissive sneer. In any tussle, he would have the weight advantage. I sweep my cape back to reveal my sword.
“Now, now!” I declaim, but I go no further into the room, “What’s all this then? Who dares to accost my sister - um, my wife?”
Mad rolls her eyes.
“You’d better go, love,” she advises the gentleman. “Flee for your life and all that. My husband’s a terror when he’s riled.”
The gentleman appraises me anew.
“Grr,” I mutter. He remains unconvinced. He renews his assault, backing my sister against the dresser.
“Well, help me then,” Mad snarls in my direction. “For fuck’s sake.”
I dither. I draw my sword. I approach the fellow’s broad back. I clear my throat. When he ignores this, I prod him in the kidney with the tip of my blade.
He turns, far swifter than I would have credited. Like lightning, he lashes out. My sword flies across the room and clatters to the floor. I let out an involuntary whimper. The scoundrel laughs with undisguised contempt. I fear he is like to throttle me when accompanied by the sound of breaking china, his eyes cross and roll back. He drops to my feet in a heap,
“Fucks sake,” Mad repeats, dropping the remains of the vase she has smashed over his head. “Do I have to do everything?”
Before I can point out that she caught me a little off guard with this unscheduled visitor, she drops to her knees and rifles the man’s clothing. She finds his purse and an ornate silver snuff box. She pulls rings from his fingers and a Saint Christopher medallion from around his neck. She squirrels these away about her person.
“Who is it?” I ask.
Mad shrugs. She doesn’t know and she doesn’t care. I hold my peace; I know it’s bootless to remonstrate with her or remind her of the rules: No Johns unless they’re pre-arranged. No tackling things alone.
Instead, I crouch to shift the scoundrel’s dead weight onto the rug. I will roll him up in it and drag him out of the house. The back door leads to a yard that leads down to the river. I make use of this for all my bodies. I weigh them down. If they should happen to float downstream, the current is strong; they will pass under a portcullis in the city wall a mile away and begin a journey to the sea.
The scoundrel groans. She hasn’t killed him.
Good.
We can turf him out and send him packing: it was all a misunderstanding, no harm done and we’ll say no more about it....
The man makes a sound that I can best record as ‘Urrk!”
Mad nods her head in satisfaction. She withdraws the blade of my sword from his back.
“What did you do that for?” I cry.
M