Carnival of Assassins

The canoe slid through the murky water of Nudgee Creek, an aquatic blade carving a silent path. Behind me the Boatman, emaciation wrapped in robes of spider thread, balanced gondolier-like in the stern. The craft directed by their rudder and magic.

Sinbad Street Shorncliffe, suburban pick-up point for Wild Card entrants to the Carnival of Assassins, the annual grading event for the three legitimate Schools of Death, a haven for those who survived the cutthroat contest.

The Boatman drew up to the landing where the Wild Cards waited. Tall, strong and silent, short, squat and sullen, a group the world would be safer for not knowing.

I eyed them wondering which one I’d be escorting into the Heartland of Death. A man, mantis thin, with knives strapped to his forearms? Or a petite woman who wore shadows like Salome’s veils? Perhaps, the dude who looked like WWE’s latest villain? My companion was preassigned, deemed most suited to my abilities to dispatch, if they failed.

I turned the name card in my fingertips and called out the word inscribed in intricate calligraphy, “They.”

Not one moved.

I said it again, “They?”

From behind the line of assassins in waiting, a guy strolled. He was dressed in a slim line suit, white shirt open at the collar and dress shoes. His hair was dark and flopped in bangs on either side of a face that was interesting enough to be a hazard. His suit revealed the rectangular outlines of a phone in one pocket and a notebook in the other. In his hands he held a serve of fish and chips wrapped in butcher’s paper.

He made eye contact with me as he pulled out an obscenely long potato chip from the greasy paper and suggestively slid it into his mouth, whole. He closed his lips and smirked in my direction.

“Hi,” his voice high and childlike with excitement, “you must be my guide.” He grinned showing way too many teeth and zero cool. “This is just so great. I can’t tell you what a buzz it is to finally have made it here.”

“You are,” I looked down at the card in my hand, “They?”

“Avery,” he held out his greasy fingers. “They always get that wrong.”

I ignored his offered hand. “Are you sure you know what you’ve signed up for?”

He pulled back, an affronted look on his face. He ran his greasy fingers down the lapel of his suit jacket, fish and chips still gripped in his other hand. “Can’t you see that I’ve even dressed for the occasion? Come on, don’t tell me you don’t recognise the character?”

I stayed silent, not quite sure he was serious.

He rolled his eyes and lifted his hands. Chips spilled out of the butcher’s paper wrap. “Are you shitting me! You don't know Mr Kill-em-all-and-then-some…”

He shook his head in sad rebuke as I stared back at him unmoved.

“What’s the world coming too when a guy going to the Assassin Olympics can’t share his love of pop culture with his colleagues?” He turned to share his spread hand gesture with the other Wild Cards. They ignored him with purpose, an indication they’d already seen the show. With a sigh he dropped his hands and stepped up to the edge of the bank.

“I’m guessing you’re my ride.” He lifted his chin in a nod to the Boatman, smirk undermining the gesture of respect.

“You know this is a one-way ride?” My fingers already itched to fulfil my duty and rid the world of this arsehole, but then if you killed people for being annoying, the world would be an empty place.

Avery recited, “Win the trial and indenture to one of the Great Houses of Death or be permanently retired, presumably by your hand.” The smirk slid off his face in a flicker of seriousness, “Why are you asking? If I make it I can’t promise more than a one night stand, I’m sure to be in demand, and don’t want to limit my options.” His eyes roamed over my Guides’ uniform lingering on all the places polite eyes avoid, “You’re fit but I’ll hold out for better.” His eyebrows waggled, smirk firmly back in place.

“Get in.” My voice dropped into the dead zone, sometimes fulfilling my responsibilities was a struggle of conscience. Should I be called upon tonight, my conscience would be clear.

The canoe rocked as he stepped down into it from the bank.

I made the signal to the Boatman; their skeletal hand emerged from their shadow robe to wrap around the wooden handle of the rudder.

“Hang on a tick.” Avery's voice grated the silence.

The Boatman’s wrist twitched as their fingers tightened on the wood.

“Who is J. W. without his dog?” He put two fingers to the corners of his mouth and let out a piercing whip whistle.

A fawn Staffordshire Terrier trotted out from the darkness behind the other Wild Cards, tongue lolling from its lopsided grin. Without pause it hopped into the boat and sat next to Avery’s feet.

“Ready when you are tall, thin and shadowy as fuck.” He said as he sat in the front of the canoe.

Behind me, the Boatman released their magic into the wooden rudder and an almost inaudible hiss. Avery was making friends all over the place tonight.

I tolerated his inane chatter as our canoe slid down the channel to the landing which would lead us to the Big Top erected in the heart of the Boondall Wetlands.

The Boatman slid the canoe to a halt beside the bank. I stood to disembark; Avery bounded off the craft followed by his dog.

The canoe shifted violently in the water, my weight completely unbalanced, inertia dragged me over the side into the creek. I surfaced, spitting muddy water.

Avery stood at the top of the bank, his dog beside him. Its lolling tongue giving the impression it was laughing at me.

“Stop fucking about, I don’t want you dripping water everywhere as you follow me around.” He called.

I swam to the bank and hauled myself out of the water. Once on land, I turned and inclined my head in a respectful nod to the Boatman. They returned the gesture with the slightest shiver of movement.

A spinning silver disc tracked across my vision heading for the Boatman. On reflex my hand shot out and caught the coin, as I looked to where Avery stood.

“Hey, that was his tip.” His tone indignant, “Not cool, Man.”

I bowed again to the Boatman, who touched their hand to the wooden rudder and slid away into the night. I turned and trudged up the bank to where Avery stood, hands on his hips, an outraged buffoon.

In two fingers I held up the heavy silver coin he’d flicked to the Boatman, then pressed it hard against his breast bone. “You pay the Boatman, you take their place.”

Under his bluster, his skin paled a shade, mouth open, witticism forgotten.

“I believe the expression you are searching for is thank you.” I treated him to a long look into my dead assassin eyes, gave the coin a shove against his chest and let it go.

His hand snapped up to catch it before it fell to the ground.

I moved in closer, turned my head so that I could hiss into his ear. “So now we both know how quick our reflexes are.” I pulled back so I could see his face.

His smirk was back in place, his eyebrow arched, as he slid the coin back into his pocket, “You caught that then? Maybe I should be worried.”

“This way.” I started walking.

He was mercifully quiet, except for the slapping of mosquitoes, as we crossed the wetlands grasses. An enormous red and white carnival tent dominated the space.

I pulled out the soaked name card from inside my tunic.

“Wild Card entry, They.” I said as I handed the soggy pulp over to the stone eyed Golem door attendant.

“Avery, they always get that wrong…” he launched into his banter.

The golem’s head turned; its stone eyes fixed upon him.

I stepped between them. “Wild Card entry, They.”

The golem, subsided into the stillness of its stone. Avery twitched behind me; I could feel the chat on the tip of his tongue impatient to leap into the silence. I let a blade drop from inside my sleeve into my hand, I tapped it high against his inner thigh. The chat died.

After what felt like an age, the golem, responded. “Enter.”

The oiled canvas spread open before us; a warm cavern of light carved into the darkness of the wetlands. The scents of sawdust, meat and violence flooded forward to draw us into its embrace.

“Oh wow!”

I expected Avery to follow up the exclamation with some pithy observation but it seemed that the spectacle of the Reception was enough to steal, even his, words.

In the centre of the ring, crowded together, those who had been successful and moved up a level, and those who judged them, partied. Movement through this slew of assassins would be an exercise in precision.

The outer ring of the circle was marked by barrels of burning coals, and buffet tables. Acolytes in beige hovered at the elbows of Pupils in dark brown, offering plates of food and slapping mosquitos, eager to perform their newly acquired duties. The novelty would wear thin in quick time.

Pupils waited on Masters wrapped in dark red brown robes, the instructors of each school. Those who wanted to pursue specific disciplines of death grovelled for scraps of attention, passing heaped plates to their robed superiors.

The inner ring of the Reception was reserved for the Sires of the Schools of Assassination.

Malachy of Steel, his sword at his side, the pommel and guard formed by the body and wings of an Angel.

Aloisa of Magic, whip slender, eyes filled with the darkness of her magic.

Janos of Flesh, arms and legs like tree trunks, his massive hands able to palm and crush a face in a deceptively fast movement.

Virtuosos of the Arts of Death, the Sires were marked apart from their dining companions by deep burgundy robes. Catering staff moved efficient and invisible around the grouped crescent tables, between them and their favoured Masters, offering delicious bites.

Seated above the Sires, on a plinth in the centre of the ring, were the Elites robed in arterial red, symbolic of the blood they had waded through to earn their privilege.

Flann, Elite of the School of Steel, his blade so fast and accurate he’d earned the title of Scythe.

Zsa Zsa, Elite of the School of Magic, as voracious and pitiless as Death itself, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.

Luca, Elite of the School of Flesh slender and supple, his body under the robes corded with muscle and power.

Before them, their poison tasters sampled each morsel.

I turned to look at Avery, his eyes were on the gathering before us. “As a Wild Card you are able to move through all the circles of rank as long as I am with you.”

His eyes tracked back to meet mine, a shit eating grin spreading across his face, “You mean you’re my all-access pass?”

He dug into his pocket and pulled out the notebook. From the inner lapel of his jacket, he pulled a pen, then clicked the top of the pen so the nib slid free.

“Saddle up darlin’, I’m not about to miss a once in a lifetime opportunity because you are dragging your heels. Take me to the top and we’ll work our way down from there.”

“Opportunity?” I eyed the cover of the book, it read Autographs, “You’re not serious?”

“As a heart attack.” He waggled his eye brows at me, “When you meet your heroes what else are you going to do?”

He began to stride through the Acolytes, Pupils and Masters swarming the buffet tables, his dog at his heel. I shook my head as I watched him stalk through the ranks. Assassins stopped to watch him, some leant down to pat his dog, he ignored them. His eyes were set firmly on the prize. The plinth and the Elites.

This was a first. I wondered how The Scythe, The Witch and The Adonis would take being asked for their autographs. I sighed and began to drip after him. I guess I was about to find out.

Avery was a step away from the plinth and Flann when The Angel’s blade whipped from its sheath and hovered a fraction of an inch away from his right eyeball. Malachy emerged out of the shadows, standing in front of him holding the blade.

“That’s so fucking cool!” Avery exclaimed, his grin widening, “I didn’t know that you could weave shadow. Isn’t that a skill that belongs in the School of Magic? Can you multi-discipline?” He chattered as if the blade of the second greatest sword wasn’t about to pluck out his eye.

Malachy’s burning eyes flicked to me as I stepped up beside Avery.

“Does, this, belong to you?” His voice rasped as if he preferred to let his blade do his talking.

I inclined my head as expected, “Wild Card Avery, Sire Malachy.”

“What does it want?” He chewed the words into fragments of sound as they left his mouth.

“What? Am I chopped liver?” Avery blustered, “I’m standing right here man, if you have something to say, you can talk to me.”

“Ah, I believe Avery wants to ask the Elites for their autographs.”

Malachy’s eyes burned as his brow creased into a frown, “Autographs?”

“To sign their names in his notebook, so he can show others that he has met them.”

“Oi, Steel for Brains, I said, if you want to talk to someone you can talk to me.” Avery stepped forward pushing his face into Malachy’s blade.

Shadows moved, the blade slipped away before Avery’s eyeball could burst in a shower of blood and vitreous humour. Malachy reappeared, his burning eyes on Avery.

“Is it mad?”

“Probably.” I shrugged.

“I’m crazy like a fox dude,” Avery stepped towards Malachy, “don’t cha read the fine print in your contracts? Once I accepted my place in the trial, no one is allowed to touch me until I fail, then only wet blanket here,” he indicated me with a sweep of his hand, “can serve as my executioner. So, let’s ditch this ‘it’ shit and get down to brass tacks.”

Malachy’s eyes flicked to me in question. I shrugged, I had no idea what he was talking about.

Avery stepped forward. With a flick of his wrist, he opened his autograph book and held the pen out to the other man. “Write something nice, like, best of luck in the coming trial and sign your name. You don’t have to threaten me to get to be the first to sign my book, but I respect the gesture.”

He pushed the pen into The Angel of Death’s empty hand. “Go on, you know you want to, I’ll hold your sword for you if you’re not a lefty.”

Malachy’s eyes dropped to the paper. He took the pen and scribbled on the page.

Avery plucked the pen out of his fingers, turned the book towards himself so he could read the inscription.

“Aw, that’s so sweet, if not anatomically possible. Big hearts and kisses to you too. Now run along, I want to collect the signatures I came for.”

Malachy’s eyes burned, but he stepped aside to allow Avery to mount the plinth.

“I’ll enjoy your trial.” The menace in his tone survived his mangling of the words.

Avery looked over his shoulder and shot Malachy a look, “You bet cha you will, I’m an entertainer, Baby.”

I kept my eyes on the ground as I walked past the furious Sire and stepped up onto the plinth behind Avery.

Our little exchange had drawn the attention of all three of the Elites. They watched Avery approach; the way lions watch small children on a school trip to the zoo.

“OMG! This is just so amazeballs! I never thought I would actually get to meet The Scythe, The Witch and The Adonis.”

I felt my gut fold in on itself as he used the pet names, the names lesser assassins used behind the Elites backs.

“Who are you?” Zsa Zsa inclined her head towards Avery, his reflection glinting in the mirrored lenses of her glasses. “Who brings this creature before us?”

Now my reflection stared back at me from her glasses. Fuck.

“I am the Wild Card Avery’s guide.” I inclined my head, and tried to shift her attention from me. “He desires to ask you all for your autographs.”

“What the fuck is all this ‘creature’ and ‘it’ that you are going on with, I am a person, with a name, Avery. If you want to refer to me, I suggest you use that in future.”

He stood before the Elites, his feet planted, dog at his heel; the silence between them an impasse between letting his insult stand and the terms of Wild Card entry.

“Autographs?” Luca’s voice, smooth as velvet dipped chocolate, interrupted the awkward silence that had descended over the Reception.

My skin twitched to turn and look behind me, but I stayed facing the Elites. You never turn your back on the deadliest people in the room, even when you can feel the weight of the eyes of a thousand lesser assassins on your back.

“We are not starlets of the screen.” Luca said.

“Now look whose being all modest. I mean, film doesn’t do you justice,” Avery addressed him, “I wouldn’t worry about the critics. Hey, is that where you got the thirst for the biz? I mean. I’ve read what they wrote, a couple of crushed throats would definitely improve their contribution to the world. You picking up what I’m putting down?”

He eyebrow waggled Luca and I waited for the hammer to fall.

“Hand me your book.” Luca held out his hand.

Avery leant forward to place it in his hand. Luca’s poison taster intercepted the book and pen before they could grace his palm. They took the book, ran their hands over the cover and fanned out the pages to detect the smell of any poison, unscrewed the pen, took it apart and tasted the ink.

Avery turned to catch Malachy’s eye; his grin wide.

“I bet cha feel like a bit of a prick for not thinking of that yourself. If it’d been poisoned, you’d be proper fucked.”

Malachy threw his goblet of wine onto the table, and glowered at the server who brought him a fresh one.

“Who’s the dummy now?” Avery turned back to the poison taster, “All good?”

The poison taster handed the book and pen to Luca and sank back to their post.

Luca took up the pen, flicked to read Malachy’s inscription, a faint smile on his lips. He signed his name with a flourish and passed the book to Zsa Zsa. She turned questioning eyes to Luca.

“We shall have no peace until he has what he has come for, I know his type of old. Sign his book and later we will watch him bleed.” He said dismissively.

After a beat, she lifted the pen and signed her name, then laid the pen on the open page and pushed it across the table to Flann. The Scythe looked down at the book and pen, his lip curled in disgust. With a snap of fingers, he summoned his poison taster. The young man leapt to obey. He stood beside his master.

Impassive, The Scythe drew a skewer of steel from his plate armour. With a movement too fast for the eye to follow he plunged it into the heart of his servant. He withdrew with the same speed, and signed his name with the man’s blood. The body’s knees buckled and toppled to the floor. The Scythe held the book out to Avery.

Avery’s fingers touched the cover but when he tried to take it back, The Scythe held on to it for a beat.

“He was my favourite.”

“Sucks to be him then.” Avery snapped the book from The Scythe’s fingers.

“If you pass the trial, I will be looking for a new poison taster.” Commented The Scythe his emotionless eyes settled on Avery.

“Baby, you don’t want that, you couldn’t handle me, if you tried.” Avery dropped The Scythe a flirty wink, “But you never know I might be looking for a hot piece of ass later. I’ll keep you in mind.”

Finally, he stepped down from the plinth and walked back into the throng of silent assassins. I kept my eyes on his back, my head down and followed.

The party began to return to normal as we reached the outer circle of the ring. Lesser assassins gave us a wide berth. His dog wandered into a crowd of pats and exclamations.

“Great plan, piss off all the Elites and Masters in one fell swoop, noice.” I commented my voice low.

“I wanted to make an impression.” Avery flipped through his book, looking at the pages.

“Well, you did that.” I looked over at the closed canvas of the Big Top, “While you were putting on a show, the rest of the Wild Cards have arrived, the trial is about to begin, we need to go and get you suited up.”

“What do you mean? I already told you, I’m suited.” He indicated his costume.

“What are you going to do for your trial? Set your dog on them?” I looked over to see the dog luxuriating under the ministrations of a group of Acolytes.

His gaze followed mine. He sniffed, “Don’t people know the Golden Rule. You don’t touch J. W’s dog?” He sighed and looked at me, “To be honest, I expected so much more. But it happens that way, doesn’t it? You build things up in your mind and in reality, they never live up to the fantasy.”

“The Wild Cards wait over there; you’ll be called one at a time to demonstrate your skills and the Elites will determine whether you gain the status of an Acolyte.” I pointed to a sectioned off piece in the front row of the ring seating.

He looked over to where his companions from the creek bank were seated, looked back at me, clicked his tongue and dipped his head in my direction, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

Avery put his fingers to his lips and let out his ear-piercing whistle, summoning his dog, it jumped up from its sea of admirers and trotted over to him. He drew himself up to his full height and for the first time that evening showed a fraction of dangerous intensity. That was until he dropped me a cheesy wink.

“Laters,” he smirked as he swaggered off to join the others.

The Reception over. Acolytes, Pupils and Masters alike moved into their preassigned sections and Schools. At the back of the tent the Sires and Elites formed the judging panel. The caterers melted away into the shadowy recesses of the tent, the trial began.

I waited with the other guides. We’d all been here before. Most times we played cards out the back of the stadium seating. What happened in the Ring was no concern of ours unless the Wild Card failed. Then we’d kill our assigned target and move on to other jobs. I was on a winning streak when they called Avery to the Ring.

I looked across the table and folded. The pile of coin in the centre of the table swept up eagerly by my opponent. I stood and walked out to the race between the stands to enjoy the show.

Avery stood in the middle of the ring, a spot-light on him and the dog. His hands were in his pockets, his body language laid back.

“Wild Card Avery, I believe I shall enjoy watching you fail,” The Scythe commented as he waved his hand for the trial to commence. A sycophantic titter ran through the stands.

Avery shrugged, “Well, I hate to disappoint but technically I’m only part of the Wild Card trying out tonight.”

All chatter stopped. Attention focused on the guy in the centre of the ring, just as planned.

“The name on the card is They, I am part of a group who has been trialling in plain sight all night, but as you already know me, let me introduce my compatriots. Hands up everyone who had one of those delicious hors d'oeuvres earlier.”

He held up his left wrist in a show of checking his watch.

“Oh dear, never mind.” As he spoke around the room assassins began to claw at their throats, eyes wide, before they slumped and died.

“Meet Channing, expert subject; poison.”

The sound of Guides hitting sawdust puffed behind me.

From between another ramp of stadium seating an unmemorable person dressed in a catering uniform stepped forward and took a bow, before walking to stand beside Avery.

Malachy stood; his sword drawn. “You will die for this.”

Avery’s expression didn’t change, “Well, it’s possible, but not by your hand. The fine print says you can’t kill us, but it says nothing about us killing you. Always read the terms and conditions people, always. And now, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to Kerry, our tech expert.”

Another non-descript person in a catering uniform walked out from the shadows to take a bow and join Avery and Channing in the centre of the ring.

“Who, in their right mind, puts a contest like this in the middle of mosquito central? Well, it would be if they were mosquitos.”

All eyes raised to fix on the huge lights around which a scourge of black specks circled.

Kerry raised their right hand in which nestled a control pad. They pressed a combination of buttons and the cloud descended amongst the assassins.

“Nano bot poison injectors.” Avery explained as the sounds of slapping and bodies hitting the ground filled the space, “The injector is activated by slapping.”

The slapping stopped, but the damage was done. Most of the Acolytes, Pupils and Masters were lying prone, jumbled and twisted, like a fleshy game of pickup sticks. Those still standing shivered, their eyes glued to the group in the centre of the ring.

The Elites remained untouched. The Sires, with the exception of Malachy, were slumped on the judging table.

“Most impressive.” Luca’s spoke as he took in the devastation, “A blow to be sure, but not a killing blow.”

“Oh, we're not finished,” Avery’s grin was firmly back in place. “No introduction is really needed for our final member. Many of you have already broken the Golden Rule, but for what it’s worth, let me introduce Regan, shape shifter and infiltration expert.”

The dog at his heel transformed into a nude brown-haired person, who bowed.

Gasps of horror came from the remaining assassins, many of whom had fussed over the dog. Hands were held up to the light to show palms mottled blue, black, a stain that spread down their wrists and arms.

“Poisoned fur. You’d be surprised at the effectiveness of that tactic.”

The pile of corpses grew.

The Elites watched as Malachy strode down from the judges table and across the sawdust floor, the tip of his sword carving a path behind him.

“Now we pass judgement,” he growled, flicking the sword up to rest in the hollow of Avery’s throat.

Avery didn’t react.

“Certainly, when I’m finished, feel free to judge all you like.” Avery’s grin widened as he withdrew the autograph pad from his pocket. “As you know everyone else’s speciality, it’s only fair that I reveal mine.”

He took his pen from inside his lapel.

“Here’s a little something I prepared earlier. Avery, expertise; paper magic.” With careful deliberation he crossed out an entry on his pad.

The tip of Malachy’s sword dipped, hit the ground, as he fell face first into the saw dust, dead.

The Elites were on their feet. Their eyes on the book and pen in his hand.

“I guess the pen is mightier than the sword.” Avery looked up at them and shrugged, “What do you reckon?”

“Congratulations on passing the Trial, They are welcomed into the Guild of Assassins.” Zsa Zsa said, her voice smooth and confident, “An impressive audition.”

I stepped out from the shadows.

All eyes fell on me.

“At last.” Zsa Zsa breathed.

“Do you intend to handle this situation?” The Scythe condescended.

I maintained eye contact with him, as I kicked a barrel filled with burning coals so it slid across to rest next to Avery.

The Elites attention snapped from me to Avery.

“Thanks for the invite and all, but we’ve a better offer.” Avery dropped the autograph book into the barrel.

Flames licked over the Elites. Skins bubbled and flesh ran like water off their bones.

They turned to me.

“As I promised," a shit eating grin spread across Avery’s face, "like clockwork.”