The Perfect Assassin

by K A Doore

  Amastan swallowed. “More than this. More than I can give you.”

  “I can assure you, what you can give is more than enough,” said Yufit. “More than I deserve.”

  “You don’t understand—” started Amastan, suddenly needing Yufit to understand.

  Yufit reached out to touch Amastan’s fingers, but hesitated. He dropped his hand. “I think I do. I won’t push you to do anything you don’t want to, Asaf.”

  “Even if that means I don’t want to do anything?”

  “Even if.” Yufit settled his hands in his own lap. “Tell you what—I’ll let you take the lead. That seems to be working so far.”

  So far. So far in what? What was this? Amastan didn’t know but he wanted to find out. He let out the breath he’d been holding and covered Yufit’s hand with his own. Yufit started, but didn’t move away.

  “There’s been a lot going on,” admitted Amastan. “I mean, beyond the jaani and the funeral and everything else. There’re some things I’m supposed to do, that I know are the right things to do—but knowing that they’re right doesn’t make it any easier to do them. I accepted the responsibility, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to see it through. This should never have come to me in the first place. There’re others more capable, more willing, but I’m the one who has to do it. Some things aren’t fair, I guess.” He lifted his head and finally looked at Yufit.

  The night had transformed Yufit’s dark eyes into liquid metal. Amastan’s stomach lurched precariously and he felt just as he had a few nights ago, before this whole mess started, one foot on the edge of the platform, the other stepping onto air, nothing between him and a long, long drop. At least then he’d had the cable to catch him.

  “No, a lot of things in life aren’t fair. But G-d never gives us more than we can bear. The hardest part is trusting that we are strong enough.” He took Amastan’s other hand and stared into his eyes. “I may not know you well, Asaf, but anyone who can face a jaani to save a stranger is stronger than he can imagine. If you know you should do this thing, if you believe it’s the right thing to do, then it doesn’t matter how hard it is. You’ll find the strength to do it.”

  Strong, thought Amastan. No one had ever used that word to describe him.

  Yufit let go of his hands. “Do the thing you’re afraid of doing. Courage, after all, isn’t an absence of fear—it’s doing something despite the fear. I know you’ll find that courage when you need it. And when you’ve done it, I expect you to tell me all about it, all right?”

  If he caught the killer, Amastan decided, he would tell Yufit everything.

  “Agreed.”

  Yufit’s fingers tightened around his and he looked back out over the deepening darkness. “But in the meantime … just sit here and watch the stars come out with me.”

  And they did.

  18

  This night was thicker than the last, the air laced with just enough moisture to be uncomfortable while still remaining as hot as an ember. The stickiness was a promise: this season would end. But relief from the escalating heat could still be days or weeks away. For the first time since the drum chiefs had dropped this whole mess on him, Amastan hoped for the former. Salt crusted at his elbows and neck where the sweat had dried from the effort of crossing several neighborhoods and a dozen rooftops to arrive here, now.

  Here: crouched beside a glasshouse crowded with desiccated stalks on a roof just that much higher than the next.

  Now: hours past midnight but still long before dawn, that sliver of time when the markets had finally closed but the caravans—were there any—hadn’t yet set out, when Ghadid was at its quietest.

  The new glass charms felt reassuringly cool against his neck even as his heart pounded with nerves and anticipation. From here he could see Menna’s small form on the adjacent rooftop. She’d only just arrived and was busy setting up for the night. She dropped a bag and rifled through it. She retrieved a length of rope and a piece of telescoping glass. Her fingers glittered as she moved, the moon catching her rings.

  Menna tied the rope around her waist, checked the placement of her knives, and palmed the glass. She slid to the edge of the roof and gazed across, putting the piece of glass up to one eye. The buildings obscured Amastan’s view, but he knew what she saw. He’d walked the street below earlier.

  A smattering of windows, some open in a desperate attempt to find a breeze, some locked tight, some lit from within, most as dark as a staring eye. Three stories up and five from the right was the mark’s window, its glass tinted blue like every other, a dull gray curtain the only distinction.

  The mark lived in a bigger, older home with several other families. The contract had been drawn up on behalf of one of those other families. Wasting your own water was a moral offense. Wasting another’s was criminal, even if it was accidental. And purposefully, maliciously wasting another’s water was a capital offense.

  While such crimes were few and far between, the drum chiefs traditionally dealt with water misuse. But sajaam lived in the details, and the details had brought the mark’s offense to Kaseem instead.

  Detail one: timing. Every end of season was a headlong race between water rationing and shortage. A season could end early or it could linger for weeks. Some years, the water easily lasted until the rain came. Some years, the least fortunate—beggars and slaves and, rarely, free people who’d run into one too many misfortunes—died of thirst, for want of healing. When you stole water from one person, you stole from everyone.

  This year’s season was particularly bad. The previous season’s storms had been thin, barely filling the aquifers and leading to a slow market year with a shortage of baats. Now it stretched on and on, more baats disappearing down the pumps every day. A little wasted hurt everyone. A lot …

  Detail two: amount. The mark had stolen several bo-baats worth of water, an amount that could’ve snatched someone out of death’s grip and quenched the thirst of an entire platform for a week.

  Detail three: spite. The mark had been spied pouring the water out on the shared rooftop and letting the sun drink it up, probably because she knew the punishment for water hoarding was almost as bad as wasting. But someone had caught the mark nonetheless.

  Detail four: the delicate nature of the mark’s relations. The mark was Kella Tholemen—the same Tholemen family as Drum Chief Ziri. Kella was Ziri’s half sister, younger by a decade but still close. If it came out that Drum Chief Ziri’s own family was wasting water, he would have to exact a punishment both severe and public to avoid losing respect and his drum. Moreover, Kella’s family would be shunned and her children burdened with an unearned notoriety for a generation or more.

  It was kinder, simpler, and cleaner if the mark’s punishment was quiet and discreet. Hence, the contract. Hence, Menna across the way, watching the line of windows for any sign of movement.

  The details that weren’t as important were why Kella had done what she’d done, but they interested Amastan. The contract had been silent on this point, but he could see the feud between the lines, one that had escalated between neighbors until Kella had stolen the water—bit by bit, skin by skin, over the course of weeks—and thrown it away. In the end, whatever slight or wrong Kella was using to justify her actions didn’t matter. The water was gone.

  The night stretched on, Menna watching the mark’s window, Amastan watching Menna, and out there, somewhere, if Amastan was right, the killer was watching as well. In his mind’s eye, it was still Megar who hid just out of sight, his screwdriver tap-tapping his thigh, even though Amastan knew the gear worker could never have bested Usem. It didn’t matter; Amastan would know who the killer was soon enough. No more guessing, no more research. His method had failed. This was how the family handled problems, silent and direct.

  Keep it normal, Amastan had insisted while they were planning the contract. Menna had agreed to several nights of surveillance. Dull, but necessary to establish the mark’s habits and behavior. They needed to know when the
mark went to sleep, when the mark woke up, what the mark did at night—any detail that might make their job easier.

  So Amastan wasn’t expecting it when Menna disappeared over the edge of the roof.

  What was she doing? He scrambled across his roof, pulling out the planks he’d stashed nearby. She was supposed to remain there for the rest of the night, an easy target for their real mark. He slid the planks across the empty space between buildings, waited for the soft thunk of connection, then ran across before the wood had stopped trembling.

  Was the killer below? Had they lured her away somehow? Was she already dead? Or was it one of the jaan? Amastan choked back the urge to call for her, knowing he couldn’t give her away, not yet. He came to the edge of her roof and peered over, searching up and down the street below, but she wasn’t there. As he was pushing himself back up, though, he caught a glimpse of movement.

  There—Menna appeared all at once as he realized what he was looking for. She clung just below the mark’s roof, her dark green wrap disappearing into the shadow of the wall. Tonight she also wore a length of the same fabric around her head like a tagel, knotted so that it left only a scrap of skin around her eyes uncovered. Amastan wore his tagel just as high; they couldn’t risk anyone recognizing them.

  As he watched, Menna pulled herself up and over and disappeared from view. Amastan muttered a number of curses under his breath. Then he followed.

  She was waiting for him when he rolled over the edge of the roof, only partially out of breath.

  When he was close enough, he hissed, “What’re you doing?”

  Menna gestured toward the metal door set into the roof. “Working the contract.”

  “This isn’t what we planned.”

  “Isn’t it?” Menna locked gazes with him. “We planned to make it look real by actually working it. Sitting on a rooftop for hours isn’t real. It’s stupid.”

  “It’s what Tamella taught us,” said Amastan. “And it’s necessary. We have to know every detail of the mark’s patterns before we go in. We can’t risk being caught.”

  “Ugh—maybe on any other contract, but this one is so simple. The mark’s asleep, she’s surrounded by family and neighbors so we don’t have to worry that no one will find the body, and she has no reason to believe she’s been caught. If your theory’s correct, then the killer knows that, too. Sitting on a rooftop for hours chewing your cud’s going to look more suspicious than actually, you know, working it.”

  Menna dropped down next to the door and began working the handle. “Besides,” she added. “I’m bored.”

  “Why didn’t you bring all that up when we were planning?”

  “You were having so much fun,” deadpanned Menna. She unlatched the handle and pulled open the door, revealing a square of darkness. “Huh. Not locked. I guess no one expects someone to break in through the roof these days.”

  “Wait.” Amastan grabbed for her before she could slide into the darkness. “You were planning on doing this all along? And you didn’t tell me?”

  “Of course I wasn’t,” scoffed Menna, easily ducking his grasp. She turned and slid herself feetfirst through the door, reaching until her feet found a rung on the ladder, then looked back up at Amastan. The cloth hid her mouth, but he knew she was smirking. “Besides, you were clearly having so much fun fussing about all the little details. I wasn’t about to take that away from you.”

  She jumped to the floor, slipping from sight as she slid her hands along the ladder’s sides. Amastan messed with his wrap and belt, silently selecting a dozen curses for Menna. Then he took a deep breath and released it. If they were going to complete this contract, he had to work with her and let go of his resentment. For now.

  He glanced around at this rooftop and the other roofs, feeling suddenly exposed. He peered into the opening. A pair of eyes stared back, bright as a cat’s in the darkness. Then Menna ducked her head and disappeared completely. Her brass assumption that he’d follow grated on his nerves like sand between teeth. But she was right, of course. Menna was always right.

  Amastan found the rungs of the ladder with his bare feet and climbed down after her. The walls closed in around him, unnervingly close after the open rooftops. It was dark and quiet; Amastan could barely see his own hands and hear the patter of his heart. As the moments passed, his eyes adjusted and the darkness gave way. Now he could see the rectangles of doors along this hall, the open darkness that indicated stairs, and a shadow off to one side.

  The shadow moved, gained form. Menna stood next to a closed door, one open palm held out to him. Her wrap was knotted tight, allowing her full range of motion. With her other hand, she loosed a dagger from its strap on her bicep. She beckoned with the dagger.

  The door was unlocked. But that was no surprise—who locked a door in their own home? The room within was silvery lit, thin shadows cast by the moon through the open window. A breeze twisted the hearth-hot air. Amastan blinked his eyes wet again even as a cold sweat prickled the back of his neck.

  A bed filled the center of the room. Two bodies lay across it, one tangled in a thin sheet, the other exposed. Menna moved aside and shut the door without even a whisper. Amastan took in the room’s details. The plush rug at the foot of the bed. The basket of folded fabric in the corner. The waste jars beside the bed, one for each occupant. The stringwork suspended from the ceiling near the window, spinning this way and that. The water glass on the side table, with just a few sips left.

  Menna caught his eye and Amastan knew in an instant her plan. It was only fair that the mark be killed by the very thing that she’d wasted. Menna touched the ring on her index finger and pointed toward the glass, then began creeping across the room. But Amastan reached out and stopped her, shaking his head.

  She frowned her confusion, but Amastan didn’t know how to explain without words. He tried a few of the signs Tamella had forced them to memorize, but Menna only looked bewildered. With a grimace, he tugged her toward the door. Menna resisted initially, then pantomimed an exaggerated sigh before following Amastan back out.

  Once they were in the hallway and the door was shut, Menna hissed, “What is it?”

  “There are two people in the room,” said Amastan. “If we poison the water, we can’t guarantee that the mark will drink it.”

  “Of course she will,” said Menna. “It was right next to her bed.”

  “Would you stake your life on it?” pressed Amastan.

  Menna started to say yes, then stopped, clearly annoyed. Amastan watched patiently as she came to the same conclusion he had. Finally, she grumbled, “Well, then what?”

  “We have to draw him out,” said Amastan. “It might still not work—she might go with him, but it’s worth a try.” He resisted the urge to chastise Menna—they could have known all these details in advance if she’d been patient and waited. But it was too late for that. They were here.

  “But we gotta make her drink it, too,” said Menna. She poked Amastan in the chest. “And you know what makes someone thirsty?”

  “What?”

  “Fear.”

  Amastan frowned, but Menna didn’t wait for him to understand. She was already heading for the stairs. Amastan started after her, but Menna held up a hand and made a series of clumsy, but clear, signs.

  Stay. Wait. Listen.

  A pause as she tried to figure out one more. Then she held her hand over her heart and squeezed it into a fist: kill.

  Before Amastan could protest, she’d disappeared down the stairs. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and bit his tongue until he could taste copper. Then he breathed: one, two, three. He relaxed his hands, shoulders, and tried to make sense of her thrown-together plan, his heart hammering too hard in his chest.

  Any moment, Menna was going to make a racket to draw out the man. That meant Amastan had to get inside, deliver the poison, and get out before Menna started whatever she was going to start. She hadn’t given him a time frame—of course not—and he couldn’t go after h
er, not without risking that she’d expose them at any moment. The only way out of this mess was playing along—and fast.

  His heart jumped into his throat as he realized what Menna had forced him into. He thought he’d accepted the possibility that he might have to kill the mark, but as he stood outside the door wasting precious seconds, he realized he’d been holding onto a thin thread of hope that Menna would do it. And why not? She’d always wanted to. She’d even offered. At the last moment, she was supposed to swoop in and make the decision for him. But when she’d left, she’d taken that hope with her.

  Cold fear blew through him. Could he do it? He tried to push away his fear by remembering that this contract was a mercy. The mark was going to die either way. If it was by his hand, then a lot of unnecessary pain would be avoided. It was necessary and he was the perfect one to do it. He was protecting the city, in a way only the family could.

  But the fear didn’t leave. It clung to him like cobwebs. He couldn’t do it. He was too weak.

  You will find the strength to do it.

  Amastan was back on the platform’s edge, Yufit’s warm hand over his own. Yufit believed in him. Amastan opened his eyes, took a shaky breath. If Yufit believed in him, then maybe he should believe in himself. After all, what was a little poison after facing a jaani?

  Amastan eyed the door as if it might bite him, then moved despite his fear. And strangely, wonderfully, the fear didn’t stop him from moving. The cobwebs stretched and broke and he was able to think clearly again.

  He pictured the inside of the room in exquisite detail before his hand touched the door. It would take five steps to reach the water glass. He didn’t have Menna’s poison rings, but he had a small pouch. Tamella had a wide range of poisons that she’d either cultivated herself or bought off the caravans. The one in his pouch had come from a small, violently colorful creature that could be found in faraway oases. He guessed at the mark’s weight and adjusted the standard dose down just a little.

  Then he pushed open the door and slid into a room that wasn’t his own. Amastan detached the pouch with one hand as he crossed the room. One, three, five steps brought him within reach of the glass, the window at his back. The water had remained flat as he approached. Water that had been carelessly poured and left out for the hungry air. Water that she’d stolen. Water that could save a life.