by K A Doore
Water that would take it.
He reassessed the mark’s size even as he undid the knot of the pouch, but he only confirmed his earlier calculation. He picked out a tiny, rolled leaf and shook it open over the glass. A sprinkle of powder fell out, heavy as sand. The white grains stuck to the sides of the glass, but instantly dissolved when they hit the water.
He tucked the leaf back into the pouch, picked the glass up, and swirled it, once, twice, and set it silently back down. He stood for a moment, looking down at the poison-laced water. It was done. And it had been so easy.
snak-clatter-BOOM
For a terrible moment, Amastan thought that there’d been an explosion. The whole building had shook with the weight of something heavy toppling over. Then both of the bed’s occupants were stirring, the man already sitting up, and Amastan moved. One second he was beside the glass, the next he’d swung out the open window and was now dangling from the ledge by his fingers, his heart hammering so loud in his ears he couldn’t hear anything else.
Then the world caught up with him and he realized that must have been Menna’s distraction. His toes scrabbled until they found holds, giving his arms a break while his heart calmed down enough so that he could hear the clamor within.
“—by G-d was that?” said a woman’s voice.
“I—I have no idea,” answered a man, but even without seeing his eyes, Amastan caught the trace of guilt. What had Menna found? “I’ll go check.”
“You can’t go down alone.” Fabric rustled and feet hit the floor.
A door opened and closed, but it was too far away to be theirs. Menna had probably woken up the entire household.
“It’s safer if you stay here.”
The mark snorted. “Safer for whom?”
“Just— I’ll be right back.” The man sounded both frazzled and annoyed.
Feet crossed the floor, and this time when Amastan heard a door, it was theirs. He pressed his toes into the wall and pulled himself up, inch by inch, until he could see into the room. The mark sat on the edge of the bed, her face in profile as she glared at the door. Then she sighed and let herself fall back into the bed. Amastan clung tight to the ledge, his arms beginning to burn.
The mark lay still for a moment before tossing one way, then the other. She wasn’t going to drink the water. He’d have to retrieve it somehow or stay hanging here until he could be certain she’d drunk it. If they messed up, if someone else drank it, if she noticed him out here—
The mark groaned. Sat up. Rubbed her eyes. Glanced toward the door. Sighed. Picked up the glass of water. Drank.
Relief blew through Amastan like a gust of wind. He began climbing up the side of the building, back toward the roof. The sound of glass shattering caught up to him before he was even halfway, followed by a choked cry, and then silence. Amastan closed his eyes for a moment in respect. The deed was done.
Now they just had to catch the killer.
19
The reality of what he’d just done caught up to Amastan as he climbed. A body lay in the room below in place of a person. And he’d done it.
It’d been so easy. Almost too easy. There’d been fear, yes. A little bit of residual terror still lingered like an aftertaste. Beneath it lay guilt and the heavy, spreading chill of irrevocability. There was no going back, no way to undo what he’d done. The mark’s blood would forever be on his hands. Her children would curse him, never knowing his name, never knowing from what they’d been spared. A hundred arguments would never persuade them, which was fair, as fair as what he’d done.
What he’d done. A pinch of poison. A glass of water. No knives, no garrote, no blood. The act itself had passed in a moment, movements too easily separated from their consequence. He felt those consequences unspooling all around him now, and what wasn’t quite guilt festered unpleasantly within him.
He could do it, but he hadn’t enjoyed it. No, that wasn’t entirely truthful. The planning, the debating, the watching, the waiting—he’d enjoyed all of that. He’d put every hour of his training to use in the last few days and it’d been more satisfying than any number of deciphered scrolls.
He hadn’t enjoyed actually killing the mark, but that was just as important. Tamella hadn’t chosen him because he’d enjoy killing. She’d picked him because he’d be good at it. And she’d been right.
Now he only had to worry about whether it had been enough to draw out the killer.
Menna waited for him on the roof. She leaned against the glasshouse, tapping her foot. Amastan’s guilt came close on the heels of his relief, when he realized she’d been up there, alone, for some time. The killer could’ve caught her at any moment and Amastan would’ve been too far away to help her. He thought about chastising her for not waiting somewhere safer, but it was done and he was here and she was fine.
Menna didn’t say a word, only pushed herself fully upright. As she started toward him, a smile brightening her eyes, something moved behind her. A blur, a shape, a person—
Menna ducked. The blade that’d been meant for her neck flew over the edge of the roof instead. She spun, keeping low to the ground, and unsheathed twin daggers from her belt. She swept one through the air in front of her. A second knife pinged off it at an angle, hit the ground, and scraped across stone.
The shape had disappeared. Amastan’s lungs burned; he finally remembered to breathe. Menna stayed in a crouch, still as stone except for her eyes, which flicked left and right. Then she moved, darting toward the glasshouse as fast as a snake. A moment later, Amastan registered the sound of a sandal scuffing across stone. He chased after her.
But when he barreled around the corner of the glasshouse, he saw only one shadow. Menna twisted around and shouted a warning.
“Oil!”
Amastan reached for his belt, but he didn’t carry oil. He had a half second to wonder what else Menna could’ve meant, then his leading foot slipped out from under him and his momentum flung him to the ground.
He could smell it then, the acrid punch of torch oil. For a moment he was confused, then panic pushed him to his knees, his palms splayed in a puddle at least a finger’s width deep. He struggled to his feet, the fumes making his head light and his thoughts as difficult to grasp as air. One careful step, then another, and he stood on dry ground again.
But his wrap was now soaked in oil.
Whoosh!
Bright, glaring light flared at his back, followed immediately by a rush of heat. Amastan knew better than to think. He dropped his belt and tore off his wrap even as the fire found it by following the thin trail of oil he’d left behind. Menna yelled something, but he couldn’t hear her over the roar of the flames rushing toward him. He skipped back on one foot, shaking the rest of his wrap loose even as fire licked his arm.
The wrap fell off and the fire fell with it. The flames were smothered briefly between the weight of the fabric and the ground. Then they found air and flared even brighter. A hot wind caressed his skin, bare but for his tagel, untouched by oil, and the assortment of small knives he wore leather-strapped to his arms and across his chest. The fire had even consumed his belt and various pouches. He tried not to think about how many months—years—worth of baats had just become smoke.
The fire lit up the rooftop as bright as day. The shadows gave way to barrels and plants and people: Menna, a fair distance away, the raised blades of her twin daggers two mirrors upon which the flames danced; and a second person, crouched on top of the glasshouse roof.
Their eyes, filled with the flicker of flames, met his. A tagel concealed the rest of their face—his face, Amastan decided, even though a similar tagel covered Menna’s. But his shape was lean and his wrap, tied close and tight for optimum mobility and the color of melted shadows, gave no hint of curves. A belt circled his waist, from which dangled several pouches and a sheathed dagger. The toes of his bare feet splayed on the glass, giving him a better grip.
Cousin. He’s a cousin, thought Amastan. But that was impossible.
Tamella would have known if a cousin had decided to start killing other cousins. Right?
Amastan had enough time to loose a blade, then the man leapt from the roof. A glint of light was Amastan’s only warning. Instinctively, he dropped to the ground, catching himself on his palms and knees. Metal clanged behind him and a body thumped the roof just ahead. He pushed himself back to his feet and looked up—and into those fire-filled eyes.
They contained more than just fire. Hate, raw and intense, met Amastan’s gaze, pushing him back. The blade he’d loosed came up in defense instead of attack as the man lunged. Amastan stumbled back, slipping across the oil-slicked ground. His blade glanced off his attacker’s, turning it away before it could meet his bare skin.
Amastan followed through and slammed his fist into the man’s side. The man twisted away, a huff the only indication that Amastan’s fist had connected. The attacker’s momentum carried him a few feet farther, where he pivoted and faced Amastan. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, his tagel fluttering.
Amastan didn’t let him catch his breath. He threw one knife while loosing another. The man anticipated the attack and easily twisted out of harm’s way, dropping his hand to his belt. He came up with a closed fist, which he opened and blew across. A cloud of powdered sand puffed into the air.
Amastan inhaled a lungful. More caught in his eyes. But the powder contained more than just sand, because his eyes began to sting and the world blurred. His lungs felt like they were full of razors, and despite trying to hold it back, he started coughing. He backed away, blinking rapidly as he tried to clear his vision. The fire flared bright to one side, darkness on the other, and between—
A smeared shadow, growing larger.
He closed his eyes and focused on the ground beneath his feet. Amastan hit an oily patch and then bare, rough stone, where he spread his feet and held his head high. He couldn’t see his attacker, but he could feel the vibration of approaching footsteps and he remembered every detail of the rooftop around him. He calculated the seconds he’d lost and the number of steps the attacker had taken, waited a heartbeat—then lunged.
His blade hit cloth and flesh, bit through both. A grunt of pain was his reward. The man smelled of fire and ash and sweat and something else, something sweet but sharp like citrus. Then Amastan was spinning away, each step as carefully planned as the next, until the heat of the fire was at his back.
Pain blossomed along his thigh, fine and delicate and sharp. A moment later he felt something warm and wet trickling down his leg. Amastan opened his eyes to a world out of focus. The man pressed a hand against his upper arm, his blade smeared with darkness. He was watching Amastan from only a few feet away, or at least his head was turned that way. Amastan couldn’t make out his eyes.
The wet had reached his heel, but it kept pulsing fresh down his thigh. His head spun and his lungs burned and his eyes stung, but Amastan pushed all of that away. He lunged again for the man, this time aiming higher—for his neck.
The man didn’t move. Amastan made it two feet before his wounded leg gave out, folding beneath him as if someone had kicked him in the back of the knee. The ground rushed up at him, slammed into his other knee, then his palms when he tried to catch himself.
The man moved. Amastan saw him in the edge of his vision as he pushed himself up. But he couldn’t stand. His feet kept slipping across the oil-slick stones, unable to find purchase. The man disappeared. A gust of wind brought the scent of flames and not-quite-citrus from behind. Too late, Amastan tried to turn, but the man had grabbed his tagel and yanked his head back.
Vibrations in the stones. Too many, too confusing. The flash of a knife at the corner of his eye, the delicate press of cool metal against his skin.
“Did you forget about me?”
Someone slammed into the man, tearing him away from Amastan. The blade slipped and was gone. Amastan turned, looked, saw.
Menna swung a length of chain over her head, circling with the man just a few feet away. She snapped the chain at him and he jumped back, but not before it caught his arm. He dropped the knife. Menna snapped the chain again and this time he dodged.
The man glanced between Menna and Amastan, who’d finally climbed to one knee. Then he bolted, racing toward the opposite edge of the roof. Menna shouted, dropped the chain and loosed a knife at the same time, one of the small ones strapped to her chest. She threw.
The blade sliced across the man’s shoulder. He stumbled, but kept going. Menna cursed, started forward, but then stopped and glanced back at Amastan, who was still struggling to stand. The man was already running across the planks Amastan had left behind. He stopped long enough to kick them down and they clattered in the street below, loud as a drum.
Amastan tried to speak, to urge Menna after the man, but the smoke had stolen his voice and all he could do was cough. He could still see him, just a rooftop over, a shadow fleeing like a trace of cloud across the sky. It was still possible to catch the killer, to end all of this, to return to a semblance of a normal life.
Menna rocked onto her toes as if she were about to break into a sprint, but still she hesitated. Then her eyes took on a cold determination. She fell back to her heels and hurried over to Amastan.
No, no, no—Amastan tried to say, but it came out voiceless and rough.
“Are you okay?”
He looked up into Menna’s worried face—she’d pulled her tagel down—and saw the real, raw fear there. Before he could respond, she began examining his leg. She hissed through her teeth, then unsnapped another knife. Amastan started to protest, unsure of her intent, but she ignored him, bent, and used the knife to rip a strip of fabric from her wrap.
She took the strip and wrapped it around the top of his thigh, above the cut. She tied it so tight he was sure she’d cut off his circulation. But then that was the point, wasn’t it? She was trying to help him.
But all he could think about was that shadow getting away.
He let Menna help him stand. His leg threatened to give out again, and he was forced to lean on her. Menna easily took his weight and guided him toward the edge of the roof.
“Can you climb?” she asked.
There wasn’t much choice. They couldn’t go through the building, not when Menna had set everyone inside on edge—and he’d have to remember to ask her what she’d done—and the attacker had made sure they couldn’t cross to another roof. Over and down was the only option.
Amastan still had one working leg and two hands. He nodded.
His shoulders were burning as if they’d been drenched in acid by the time they reached the ground. His searching toes felt solid rock and he eased himself down with a sigh of relief. Then he had to grab hold of Menna to keep from collapsing. His head spun and his injured leg was sticky with blood, despite Menna’s makeshift bandage.
He needed a healer.
Menna clearly had the same thought. She helped him down the alley and into the circle, but passed the first healer’s sign. Even if he was dying, they couldn’t get help in the same neighborhood as the mark. It was too risky. So Amastan gritted his teeth against the growing pain and focused on moving forward, step by awkward step.
At some point, Menna had found him a fresh wrap and helped him remove all his knives. He was dizzy with blood loss by the time Menna helped him through the healers’ door. It took him too long to understand why it was suddenly bright, why more than one pair of hands were on him, why someone gasped with shock—no not shock, embarrassment. He was pressed onto a table and he closed his eyes against the glare.
Words passed over him, incomprehensible. Questions were asked, but he understood them only after they’d been answered, and then only in impressions.
Broken glass—accident—not fatal—loss of blood—end of season—not enough water—triage only—okay—okay—okay—
Someone had covered him with a blanket. Hands touched and prodded and poked. Mostly his leg, but once someone pried open an eye. He winced and pulled away a
nd they seemed satisfied with that. Something cool pressed against his lips.
Drink this.
He did. Then the fuzziness that had been creeping over him bloomed and spread and he sank into the table and away.…
20
Voices murmured near his ear, as unintelligible as the wind. Growing louder.
Amastan shot upright, instantly awake, fear closing his throat. But there was no smear of red in the air, no wind whipping around him. He wasn’t alone on a rooftop or clinging to a bridge over the sands or trapped in an alley.
No—there were people all around him. Some lying, some standing, some sitting. The voices were theirs, a steady background noise and nothing more. He sat on one of over a dozen beds in a close-packed room. As he took in his surroundings, bits and pieces of memory flashed. He was at the healers. Menna had brought him here. The rooftop—fire—
“Well,” said a woman sitting next to him, her voice as familiar as his own hands. “That answers my question of whether you’re awake.”
“Thiyya?” he said, although her name came out as a croak. “What—?”
His elder sister smiled thinly. “I’m not on duty tonight, but Menna asked me to help keep an eye on you. She’s in the other room, resting. You’ve had a rough time of it. How do you feel?”
Amastan rubbed his forehead. “I’m…” he started, then stopped. He’d been about to say fine. But instead he felt beat up, wrung out, and sore all over. The single word had scratched his throat and now he coughed. His thigh pounded with pain and the room swam when he turned his head.
He pulled back the blanket covering him and found bandages instead of healed skin. He hid his surprise by pretending to check the dressing. But this was his sister, and he couldn’t hide anything from her.