The Perfect Assassin

by K A Doore

  Amastan’s scanning gaze fell on Thana. She stood next to Rema, Usem’s widow, holding her hand. Thana’s expression was blank, her cheeks smudged with dried tears. She couldn’t be seen with her mother, not in public. And now even her assumed father was dead.

  As if feeling his gaze, Thana turned her empty stare on him. Amastan looked away immediately, but not before he felt the accusation in her gaze. No—she’d only noticed him staring. She couldn’t know it was his fault the killer still walked free. His fault Usem was dead. The only guilt he saw was his own.

  The murmuring stopped and a silence fell over the crypt, the only sounds those of breathing, shifting cloth, and the faint gurgling from the pipes within the pylon. Then Elder Dessin raised his hands and, just like that, the ceremony was over. One person broke free, then another, then the whole crowd was moving as one, dragging Amastan up the stairs and out of the gloom into the late evening’s heat.

  He broke from the stream of people and turned into an alley. He crossed to the next street, then turned north until he found a narrow seam between two buildings, hardly wide enough to be called anything. The walls here were crumbling, full of soft spots and indentations. He cast one glance back to make sure no one was watching, then scaled the wall.

  It was hotter on the rooftop than down below. He sought and found shade next to a large compost barrel. It stank of putrid-sweet garbage, but Amastan didn’t mind; the rot helped to clear his thoughts. He settled next to the barrel and waited, watching what might be clouds—or what might be mirages—bubble and boil and burst on the horizon.

  A sandal scuffed across stone. He didn’t turn. A moment later, Menna stepped in front of him, obscuring his view of the maybe-clouds. She’d traded her funeral whites for a more subtle beige, a color that made her blend into the cityscape. The white cloth that had covered her hair was now tied around her waist, the only reminder that there’d just been a funeral.

  “I could’ve been the killer.” Menna sounded disappointed.

  Amastan kept his gaze where the horizon had been, which just happened to be Menna’s knees. “No, you couldn’t have been. The killer has only attacked cousins while they were actively pursuing their contracts—at night and near their marks. Our mark is several neighborhoods away and it’s still early evening.”

  “Amastan—are you going to be able to do this?”

  “I have to.”

  “I mean the contract.” Menna settled into a squat, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “I can do it, if you want me to.”

  Amastan didn’t have to ask her what she meant. He let the offer hang between them, tantalizingly close. During all their planning, they hadn’t answered the question of who’d kill the mark. Depending on how their surveillance unfolded, it could go either way. Amastan hadn’t wanted to commit to one, only to have circumstances force them into another. He had a plan for any eventuality.

  Any—except for the one where he couldn’t kill the mark. Which was why Menna’s offer tempted him. It would take away some of the uncertainty. Some of the unknown. Some of the fear.

  Could he kill?

  But this was his contract, his responsibility. If the opportunity arose, if his hand was ready, he would have to do it.

  “I’ll be okay,” said Amastan.

  Menna chewed on her lip, but didn’t push it any further. Instead, she sat down next to him, tucking her knees to her chest. “I’ve been talking to the elders in between all these funeral preparations. They have some ideas about the jaan. The jaan’s pattern has been troubling, though. The pushing, the intent, the fixation—they think at least one of them might be turning into a guuli. Which would make my little banishment trick that much more amazing.”

  Amastan frowned. Guul were demons that preyed on the dead and the dying, picking and choosing body parts to create their own bodies. “But guul only live in the Wastes.”

  “Guul exist wherever there are jaan with sufficient motivation,” said Menna, her words plucked and precise and clearly memorized. “At least, that’s what Elder Dessin said. And somebody has given this jaani sufficient motivation.” An animated excitement underlined her voice. “Of course, no one knows for sure, because as far as anyone remembers, a guuli has never existed in Ghadid. This would be the first. And no one really understands how they’re created. Dessin thinks this jaani has possessed several people already. Being such a new and strong jaani, though, it would’ve destroyed whoever it possessed before it could get too far. But that just gave it more strength. Dessin said it’ll keep trying to possess people until it figures out how to stabilize itself, and then it’ll collect body parts like a guuli, because it’ll be a guuli. We need to stop it before it gets that far.”

  “If it’s already killed people, why haven’t we heard about it? Wouldn’t the drum chiefs have said something?”

  “Not if they were beggars and slaves,” said Menna quietly. “People who don’t have the baats for charms.”

  Amastan thought of the beggar asleep in the pumphouse, safe from the day’s heat but not from the jaan. The jaani had already been so strong when it’d entered the inn. Had it killed the beggar only moments before?

  “But I thought jaan only drove people mad. How do they kill?”

  “The body can only sustain one jaani at a time,” said Menna. “The jaan on the sands and in the Wastes are thin and weak. They drive you mad. But this jaani—these jaan—they’re too strong. They tear the body apart, burn it up from the inside. Much like guul do, when they possess a living person. That’s why guul prefer corpses. But this jaani doesn’t know any better, and it’ll keep trying to regain the body it lost no matter how many it burns through.”

  “G-d.”

  “Yeah. The elders are working on a way to quiet them, though. Dessin has a few ideas himself and they’re asking me for any ideas, too. In the meantime, we just have to stay careful and stay safe.”

  Menna rummaged around in her pockets. After a moment, she produced a leather cord with five opaque glass beads. She held it out to Amastan, who took it and weighed the glass in his palm. They were heavier than he’d expected and cool to the touch.

  “I got that from Salid,” said Menna. “He’d been working on something a little stronger for me. It should protect you from any jaan, even these. I have one, too.” She pulled down her wrap, exposing her throat and a matching string of beads. “We can’t risk any distractions tonight.”

  Amastan curled his fingers around the beads, but he didn’t put them on. “Thank you.”

  Silence filled the space between them. Below, a mule grumbled as it pulled a cart laden with leather and brightly colored fabric down the street. The smell of roasting lamb drifted across the roofs and Amastan remembered he hadn’t eaten since dawn. A child screamed and then laughed. A conversation rose and fell as a group passed by.

  “It’s not your fault,” said Menna.

  Amastan kept his gaze averted.

  “You’re going to have to accept it one day, and it might as well be now,” continued Menna. “You couldn’t have known. Hell, we still don’t know, do we? We’re only guessing it’s the contracts, but we could be wrong. And if we are—it’s still not your fault. You didn’t kill Usem. You didn’t kill Emet. You can’t blame yourself for someone else’s actions.”

  Amastan didn’t trust himself to respond. His fingers tightened around his knees. Menna sighed and stood up, brushing off her wrap.

  “Well, you’ve got a few hours to feel sorry for yourself,” said Menna. “Just get it out of your system before we meet up tonight, okay? Moping’s not going to help us find the killer.”

  She stood for a moment, watching him, but when Amastan didn’t move, she shook her head and left. Her footsteps retreated, the scuff of her sandals growing distant until all at once they were gone. He pictured her rolling her eyes at him as she swung over the edge of the roof.

  He gave himself another moment, then he stood. Menna was right. He was helping no one by sitting here and beating hims
elf up over things that had already happened. Even if he sat here all night, Usem would never come back. He couldn’t undo what had happened, but he could do everything possible to stop what might happen.

  He slipped from the alley back onto the road. He didn’t have any destination in mind, but his feet dragged him back toward the crypt. He would pay his final respects to Usem in his own way and then he would prepare for tonight.

  But he’d only gone one street before he caught sight of a familiar tagel. Silver as moonlight, Yufit’s tagel all but glowed in the dying evening sun. Amastan was hit by a heavy mixture of guilt and nerves. He’d promised to meet up with Yufit two days ago and the time had come and gone while Amastan was busy with the rest of the family preparing for the funeral.

  Yufit hadn’t noticed him yet. Amastan considered turning around and hiding in an alley until Yufit was gone, but he dismissed the thought almost as soon as it occurred. He wanted to see Yufit. Besides, he still needed Yufit. If they didn’t catch the killer tonight, then Yufit might have the answers they needed.

  Either way, it was too late to turn back. Yufit’s steel-cold eyes had passed over him initially, but now they fell on him and widened with surprise.

  “Asaf?”

  Amastan realized he wasn’t at all prepared for this encounter. His tagel was too high and he had no excuse ready for missing their meeting. Belatedly, he wished he’d fled.

  “What’re you doing out here?” asked Yufit, drawing close. Those eyes swept over him, leaving Amastan feeling naked. “Was there a funeral?”

  With a sudden panic, Amastan realized he was still wearing white. “I—uh—yes.”

  Yufit’s expression turned grave. “I’m so sorry. Someone close?”

  “No,” said Amastan. Not a lie, not exactly—Usem was family, but he was only distantly related. “But I thought I should be there.”

  Yufit nodded. “May his jaani rest quietly.”

  “What about you?”

  “Oh, just—running an errand,” said Yufit, gesturing vaguely. His gaze stayed on Amastan, though, and there was something in his eyes that Amastan couldn’t quite place. “You missed our meeting the other night.”

  “I’m so sorry—the death was sudden, so things were kind of a mess. Menna asked me to help with the funeral preparations. She’s a marabi, you know—”

  Yufit waved away his excuses. “You don’t have to apologize. I’m just glad you’re okay. I thought the jaani might have gotten you.”

  “Oh.” Of course, thought Amastan, berating himself. How could he have forgotten? He’d disappeared for three days right after Yufit had saved him from the jaani. How callous could he be?

  “I mean, I might be a little upset,” said Yufit, but his eyes crinkled with a smile. “But I know a way you can make it up to me.”

  “How?”

  “Do you have a few hours to waste? Let’s just pretend it’s two nights ago and you didn’t miss our meeting.” Yufit held out his hand. “How about it? We have to leave now, though, otherwise we’ll miss the best part.”

  Amastan hesitated. He’d planned on spending the next hours preparing. Sure, he’d been planning with Menna for the last few days, but it never hurt to take a little extra care, go over everything one more time. Double-check his rope, hone his blades, count his poisons.

  Then he thought back to the night of his trial, the time he’d spent on the sands. The missing carriage. He’d tried to prepare for everything, but he hadn’t prepared for that. He couldn’t prepare for everything that might happen tonight. Maybe it was better if he stepped away from it all and cleared his head. Besides, he still needed Yufit and his knowledge of Yanniq’s last days. If they didn’t catch the killer tonight, Yufit was his only remaining lead.

  Amastan took Yufit’s hand.

  As Yufit led him through the streets and across platforms, Amastan’s curiosity expanded with each bridge they crossed. With the sun peeking between the buildings in occasional flashes of blinding brightness, Yufit headed steadily west until they reached the last platform. He pulled Amastan through the platform’s quiet center to an alley that narrowed and ended in a two-tiered railing.

  The sunset’s light oozed down the alley, turning it red as blood. Amastan hesitated at the mouth, Yufit’s hand slipping out of his. But the wind hardly stirred and the air stank only of heat and dust. The only sound was the distant cry from a children’s game and a subtle thrum near his feet.

  Amastan looked down in time to see a gray cat slip between his legs and down the alley. Yufit crouched and scratched beneath its chin. The thrum became a hum: the cat was purring. Yufit gave the cat a final pat, then straightened and gestured toward the railing.

  “I thought this might be more your idea of fun.”

  Amastan forced a smile, unsure if Yufit was serious or joking. The alley held no secrets or wonders, only flat, sun-bleached stones still hot from the day, empty walls, and a drop on the other side of the railing onto nothing. The sunset’s glow lit half of Yufit’s face, warming his eyes. He looked hopeful as he waited for Amastan to respond; he wasn’t joking.

  Without waiting for Amastan, Yufit took a seat on the edge of the platform, slipping his legs beneath the lower railing. Amastan eyed the railing with distrust. Some of the city’s metals were impervious to age and heat—a trick the ancients had neglected to pass on—but some, like this railing, showed their age. Brilliant orange rust flecked its length, accumulating at the point where metal railing met the stone wall of the building.

  The opening was narrow, barely wide enough for the two of them. Amastan carefully slid between the wall and Yufit, but his arm still brushed Yufit’s and their legs dangled over the edge precariously close.

  As Amastan settled into place, he finally saw what Yufit meant. At his back, he could still feel the city. But he could no longer see it. He clung to its edge, staring out across a vastness of space toward a horizon impossibly far away. The Wastes. Below: the sands. Beyond: the sands. The sunset turned them red as embers, and as the sun slunk away, for a brief moment it appeared that the whole world was on fire.

  Heartbeat by heartbeat, the sun disappeared and the shadows stretched longer and longer, giving the flat emptiness form and shape far beyond its reality. Rocks became boulders and farther west, a dune field grew into mountains. Beyond that, red shimmered like glass across the salt flats.

  Out in the Wastes, wild jaan roamed. Out there, guul bided their time until they found their next corpse. And somewhere in the Wastes’ vastness, it was said the sajaam still lived.

  The Wastes were a place for demons and the dead. Not Ghadid.

  The sun disappeared, taking its light with it. The sky faded quickly, turning from a dusty blue to a thin black. Stars peeked out one by one, and the more Amastan looked for them, the more he saw. Their pinpricks of light brightened and formed familiar shapes. The Vulture hung to the north, the brightest star in the sky at the tip of one wing.

  Amastan had stood on the edge of Ghadid many times. He’d watched the carriages creak up from the sands, full of merchants. He’d tried to see what was beyond the sands, beyond the curve of the horizon. He’d stared and wondered. He’d looked for storms, for clouds, at the end of season. He’d searched for the caravans he knew occasionally cut into the Wastes. He’d even imagined what the sand would feel like between his toes.

  But he’d never paused to take it all in before.

  “It’s amazing,” said Amastan.

  “I come here to think,” said Yufit, his voice softer and closer than before. He kicked his legs over the edge of the roof. The breeze coming off the Wastes was warm, consistent. Comforting.

  For a moment, they sat in silence together, listening to the city as it wound up behind them. For a moment, Amastan didn’t think about Usem or Emet or Yanniq or the jaan or the drum chiefs or the family or Tamella or the killer or tonight. He watched as gold faded to orange faded to red faded to black and stars appeared like wavering visions.

  But as the
night deepened, Amastan’s worries returned. He could all but feel time slipping past, slick and quick as sand. In a few hours, he’d be crouched on a rooftop with Menna. In a few hours, he might come face to face with the killer. In a few hours, this could all be over.

  Yufit took a breath. Blew it out, fluttering his tagel. “Are you okay, Asaf?”

  “Yeah,” said Amastan quickly. “I’m okay.”

  But Yufit shook his head. “It’s just, I’m confused by you. You know, when we first met, you seemed inquisitive, interested. Pushy, even. You saved me from a jaani and then you turned that into an opportunity. I mean, I don’t mind. Maybe it was just tea. I thought it was something more, but after we last talked, something seems to have changed. If you aren’t interested anymore, you can tell me, you know. You don’t owe me anything.”

  The dull glow of a torch reached them from the street and lit half of Yufit’s face. His eyebrows were drawn tight, creased with no hint of a smile. Amastan looked at the horizon, unable to meet Yufit’s eyes. His stomach felt as if it’d been twisted into knots and his throat was too tight to speak.

  He’d been bad at everything, including this. What had Tamella ever seen in him? He couldn’t even flirt to save a life. But it was more than that. Even though he barely knew Yufit, he didn’t want to lose him. He didn’t want to just flirt. The lies he’d told himself and Yufit had twisted with reality until he couldn’t tell one from the other.

  Was it a lie, though? What he felt now? This increased heart rate, these sweat-slick palms, this burning warmth in his belly? All of it, despite his very real fear of tonight?

  Tonight …

  A hand covered his, pulling Amastan out of his thoughts and back to the edge. Yufit had moved closer. Their wraps brushed against each other.

  “I’m … interested. I just … I’m not … I don’t think I’m what you’re interested in.” Amastan carefully extracted his hand, tucking it into his lap.

  “What do you think I’m interested in?”