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    The Assassin and His Sister: A Comedy of Murders
    The Assassin and His Sister: A Comedy of Murders
    The Assassin and His Sister: A Comedy of Murders
    Ebook221 pages3 hours

    The Assassin and His Sister: A Comedy of Murders

    By William Stafford

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    About this ebook

    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.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAG Books
    Release dateMar 11, 2016
    ISBN9781783330409
    The Assassin and His Sister: A Comedy of Murders

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      Book preview

      The Assassin and His Sister - William Stafford

      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.

      Mad pulls a face.

      It’s done now, she concludes. Get shot of him.

      She wipes my sword on her skirt and flounces off to her bedroom. I check the body but it’s too late. He has gone. I cross myself. Another soul damned to Hell.

      See you there, I mutter to his unhearing lughole.

      I roll him up in the carpet. He is heavy in death but my anger at my sister adds strength to my muscles. I drag him through the kitchen and yank open the back door. To my dismay there is a lot of life on the river tonight. An enormous barge, ablaze with light and alive with music is drifting slowly by. It’s the bloody Duke! Frittering away taxes on another bloody party. I’d be more outraged if I actually paid any taxes but for now it’s inconvenient and irritating enough that I can’t get rid of this corpse without someone on that boat seeing something. I close the door and dash to the front.

      Out in the street, drinkers and night-owls are pouring out of the tavernas. It’s still too early. There’s a public privy at the end of the next street. I can dump him in there and no one will notice the stench as his moral corruption plays out on his earthly body. But I will have to wait a couple of hours before I can drop my friend off at his convenience.

      I’m still angry. But it does not do to shout at Mad. She doesn’t hear your words when you shout. She just responds to the loudness and shrieks her point of view until you submit. But I have to say something.

      I rap on her door and call her name.

      What? she barks.

      I push the door open. She is a lump on the bed, hidden by blanket and shadow, but I can see she is sitting up and not trying to get to sleep. She is still worked up from our little encounter with the John.

      I - I’ve got a new client, I begin. This is my way of telling her she shouldn’t bring men home without my knowledge. I am letting her know I can handle our business affairs.

      Oh, yeah? She doesn’t believe me. Who?

      The Duke’s jester! I announce.

      She grunts.

      I know him, she says. I mean I’ve seen him around. Horrible creature.

      You would not want his portrait over your bed, I agree.

      So, she sounds keen at last, when’s the job?

      She always wants to know when; she’s never concerned about whom.

      Um... I seem to have plunged myself into dangerous waters.

      Sparrow.... She crawls from the bed and joins me in the doorway. We are of a height and her bright eyes flash as she stares into mine.

      I don’t know when exactly, I admit. We haven’t bashed out the details.

      She sneers. I ought to bash your brains out. She is exasperated. The Duke’s jester! She prods me in the ribs. Hah! He was probably jesting with you - did you ever think of that?

      I back away but she bears down on me, her finger sharp as a dagger. I try not to wince, to show any weakness. I fall over backwards; I had forgotten about our friend in the carpet. Mad laughs.

      I’ll believe it when I see it, she goes back to her room. You can’t do anything right.

      She closes the door. I glare at it, wishing I could ignite it with my eyes. I pick myself up and give the dead man a kick.

      Come on then, buggerlugs, I sigh. Let’s put you to bed.

      I realise too late I should have bound his wound before I wrapped him up. His blood is soaking through the carpet.

      Bollocks.

      ***

      I am sweating. I drag the carpeted corpse through the backstreets by its feet. I should have taken his boots off; I know that now. The head end bounces and splashes in puddles and detritus, the filth of the city, which soaks into the carpet, making him heavier. At last I reach the privy, little more than a shack over a pit. I watch and wait. There is no one around.

      Alone in the shack with my dead friend, I puzzle over how I will fit his fat bastard belly through the hole in the seat. I find myself thinking of camels and eyes of needles. It is easier for a rich man to enter Heaven than for this fat bastard to drop through the seat of a privy.

      You going to be long in there, chum? A gruff voice from the other side of the door.

      Just a minute! I manage to squeak. Time is against me now.

      Get a bloody move on! the impatient fellow raises his voice. I panic. I unfasten the cords that bind the carpet and with a kick I send the corpse unrolling. He rolls over and hits the wall with a thump.

      Bloody hell, says the man outside. What have you been eating?

      Just a minute, I grunt. I try to lift the dead bastard towards the hole. Perhaps I can force him through it headfirst. It will be like a second birth for him. He can enter the afterlife through the privy seat.

      The man outside begins to batter the door.

      I’ll shit myself! he warns. He thinks he’s got problems.

      The door rattles and shakes ominously. I can see it bend inwards with each pound of his fist. It can’t withstand that kind of treatment for long.

      I dither. I can’t be found here in the company of a dead body.

      Now, now, says a new voice. What’s the trouble here?

      Some bugger’s hogging the bog, the first man replies.

      Is he indeed! exclaims the new voice. Attention in there! he raises his voice. This is the night watch. Come out with your breeches up.

      I can’t be seen by the night watch, not with a dead man, not at all! In my line of work I have to keep myself unknown to the officers of the law. I have to live in the shadows, a creature of the night...

      An idea strikes me. A horrible idea but it’s the only one I have.

      I shove the dead man aside and squeeze myself through the hole in the seat. I hang onto a crossbeam while I try to pull the corpse over the hole like a human lid. I succeed. His dead arse blocks out the light. I am plunged into darkness. The stench rising from far below me hammers my head. I hold my breath and cling on.

      I hear the watchmen kick the door in and their footsteps as they crowd into the shack.

      Begging your pardon, sir, I hear one of them say to the slumped man above me.

      He don’t look well, points out another.

      I find I can hold on no longer. Horror and alarm wash over me. I plummet into the filth and that too washes

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