The Perfect Assassin

by K A Doore

  “It’s the end of season,” said Thiyya. “We’re running out of water. Your healer used some to replace the blood you lost, but other than that we’ve had to let time heal you. Sorry—I think Menna’d hoped I’d be able to do more, and I would’ve, but there really isn’t enough water.” She glanced around and dropped her voice. “They would’ve noticed.”

  Dread settled heavy in his stomach, but he had to ask. “How long has it been?”

  “A few days.”

  Amastan closed his eyes and breathed deep. So much time. Too much time. And the killer was still loose. Had another cousin died while he was stuck here?

  And Yufit—was he okay? Had a jaani attacked him? Or worse—had Yufit given up on Asaf after he’d disappeared for a third time? Amastan felt guilty that he was almost as worried about that possibility as he was about another body.

  Thiyya stood. “I’ll go get Menna. I promised I’d let her know as soon as you woke up.” She weaved her way through the beds to the curtain-covered doorway.

  Amastan dropped his head into his hands. He felt sick, but he wasn’t sure if it was from his injuries or conscience. He listened to the room, voices mingling with moans and the occasional snore. He’d never seen a recovery room this full before, but he’d also never been in one this near to season’s end. The healers were using water sparingly, which meant more people waiting for time to heal them instead.

  A few windows lined the back wall, but their glass was covered by thick curtains. All of the light in the room came from several well-placed lanterns and mirrors. It’d been night when he’d arrived here and it was night again, but that told him nothing of how long he’d been with the healers.

  A few days—was that two? Three? More?

  The curtain parted and Menna entered, Thiyya right behind. Menna wore a fresh wrap and she’d cleaned off the dust and oil and soot from her face, but she looked exhausted. Her eyes lit up when she saw Amastan, though, and she quickened her pace.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Fine.” This time the word came out less rough, if still hoarse. “How many days?”

  Menna’s gaze slipped to the side. “Just a few.”

  “How many?” pressed Amastan.

  “Two days, three nights,” said Thiyya. She glanced at Menna. “Well, two and a half nights. You haven’t missed the end of season, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She put her hand on his arm. “You were lucky. A half inch higher and you would have bled out before Menna could get you here. Whoever attacked you—he meant to kill. People get so desperate at the end of season. Thank G-d he had bad luck.” Her voice broke in those last words and Amastan felt a tremble in her fingers.

  Menna took Thiyya’s other hand. “He’s okay now. The watchmen will find the attacker.”

  Thiyya looked down for a moment. When she looked up again, her expression was calm and still, but there was a wetness to her eyes. “I’ll let you two talk. I’ll be in the other room.”

  Thiyya turned to go, but Menna held onto her hand. Thiyya paused, glancing at her, but Menna offered no excuse. Instead, she stepped in close, rose to her tiptoes, and kissed Thiyya’s forehead. Only then did she let go of Thiyya’s hand. Thiyya closed her eyes for a heartbeat, then left without saying another word. Menna watched her go.

  “I told her you’d been attacked on your way home,” said Menna quietly. She turned back to Amastan. “That’s all she knows.”

  “Why is she here? This isn’t where she heals.”

  “Because I asked her. I wanted her expert opinion. And … I didn’t want to be alone.” The corner of Menna’s mouth quirked up. “Besides, she was worried about you. Thiy’ thinks you can’t fight your way out of an empty room, you know.”

  “But … why her?” pressed Amastan. “Why not Dihya or Azulay? They would understand. Thiyya doesn’t need to know I’ve been hurt.”

  “What, you think your own sister wouldn’t notice when you didn’t return home for several days?” Menna raised an eyebrow. “You might pull one past Guraya, but Thiy’ isn’t dense, ’Stan. She wanted to help, so I let her. She’s a healer, she knows a bit about this stuff. ’Sides, Dihya and Az’ would’ve asked too many questions.” Menna rubbed her forehead. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m not ready for questions.”

  Cousin. He’s a cousin. “We might not be able to trust them, anyway.”

  Menna’s gaze sharpened. “You don’t think—”

  “I don’t know what I think,” admitted Amastan. “But whoever attacked us that night, they had our training.”

  Menna shook her head. “No, no way. I know our cousins’ fighting styles and that wasn’t it. I could fight you or Az’ or Dihya with my eyes closed and I’d know who I was fighting, and I’d still win, too. It wasn’t either of them.”

  “If they’re killing cousins, though, maybe it wouldn’t be that hard for them to change their style enough to fool you,” said Amastan. He’d been so certain that the killer had been a man during their fight, but time had fuzzed the details and now his certainty frayed. Dihya was tall and broad like a man, after all.

  “But why,” said Menna. “What reason could they have to kill Yanniq? And Emet? And Usem?”

  Amastan stared at his hands. Tamella hung at the center of all three, but she couldn’t be the killer. She would never have let a jaani go wild, let alone her own brother’s. Could Usem have been retaliation, though? Were there two killers?

  “Emet was your uncle,” said Amastan slowly. “Was he also related to either Dihya or Azulay?”

  Menna started to shake her head but stopped. “No more than he’s related to you. I think his sister might’ve been Dihya’s mother—I can check. But ’Stan—you can’t seriously suspect that Dihya killed Usem.”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Amastan. “But a cousin attacked us that night. Only a cousin could’ve known about the contracts and only a cousin could’ve surprised Usem.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Menna, but her voice lacked certainty. “We’ll talk to Tamella. She’ll tell you you’re wrong.”

  “But if Tamella killed Yanniq—” began Amastan.

  “Listen to yourself, ’Stan. You can’t suspect everyone. Who’s next, me?”

  Amastan started. “No. You were there that night. You saved me.”

  “But I could’ve been working with the killer,” said Menna. “Maybe I saved you because I chickened out. And what about Azulay? He likes to gamble—maybe he got himself into too much debt.”

  “You’re right. He could have sought out the contracts himself. It’s possible he’s that desperate.”

  Menna groaned. “That’s not what I meant. Look—you gotta trust Tamella. She already laid herself on the line for this city once. Besides, if she was going to kill Emet, it wouldn’t have been so messy. She’s the Serpent.”

  Amastan took a deep breath. Menna was right. He was just being paranoid. “All right.”

  “Good,” said Menna, visibly deflating.

  “We’re no closer,” said Amastan.

  The despair that’d been lingering on the edge of his awareness closed in. This had been their only chance. And it had worked—until it hadn’t. The killer had been right there. Yet the killer had gotten away—he’d let the killer get away. In all his careful preparations, he’d never planned to fail.

  Now who would die because of that failure?

  “You should’ve gone after him.”

  “And let you die?” asked Menna. “Shards no. Even if I had, I couldn’t’ve caught him. He was already gone.”

  Amastan’s fingernails dug into his palms. Logically, he knew if he’d been in Menna’s place, he would’ve done the same. He could see the distance between Menna and the killer when she’d hesitated, could count the feet and the seconds and knew that, while there had been a chance she could’ve caught him—Menna was fast—that chance was small. But logic didn’t make the situation any better.

  Menna touched his shoulder. “You need to r
est.”

  “I don’t have time to rest.” Amastan swung his legs over the side of the bed and instantly regretted it. His thigh sang out in pain and it took him a moment of breathing through his teeth before he could move again.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Leaving.” Amastan shifted his weight to the edge of the bed and then onto his legs. His injured thigh protested, but held. As long as he was careful and slow, he should be able to walk.

  Menna stepped in front of him, blocking his way. “The healers said you need a few more days—”

  “Did they say I needed to stay here?”

  Menna pursed her lips. “No, but—”

  “Then I’m going home.” Amastan paused and met her gaze. “My bed might be needed by another.” He didn’t add cousin, even though it was on the tip of his tongue.

  Menna frowned but nodded. “Fine. But we’re walking you home.”

  Amastan lifted his hands in mock surrender. With Menna hovering at his side, he tried taking a step. It was easier than he’d expected. Most of the pain had come from stretching the wound as he got out of bed, but once he was on his feet, he could ignore the pain. He took a few limping steps before he found a way to walk without sharp, shooting pain. By the time he’d reached the curtain, he’d figured out how to walk normally—almost.

  Thiyya met them on the other side of the curtain. She took his hand and together they left the healers. The night air was laden with moisture; Amastan could taste it as soon as they stepped outside. The street was busier than he’d expected, filled with a thin but constant stream of conversations, exclamations, and people. A market rumbled and cried nearby. It couldn’t be long after sunset. The stars were just starting to come out.

  As Amastan walked, his despair thickened until it was clogging his throat. He examined the situation from every angle, trying to find a way to go forward, a way to salvage what they had. But the truth was, he’d shattered everything. His one chance, his best chance, and the killer had gotten away. Worse, the killer knew they knew. They wouldn’t be able to draw him out again, if at all.

  Yufit—he still had Yufit. He had to know something, a connection that Amastan had missed. But even that was tenuous. Amastan had disappeared on him again. Besides, he didn’t know where or how to find Yufit. He could be anywhere. Amastan looked up at the sky and traced the stars that made up the Vulture.

  I come here to think.

  Thiyya tugged on Amastan’s hand, concern tightening her features. Amastan realized he’d slowed down and gave her a reassuring smile. Inside, a different kind of energy set his nerves on edge, a desperate need to do something, now. His failure had left him ragged and raw. He’d been lying unconscious at the healers for the last three days. He could all but taste season’s end in the air. He didn’t have any time left to lose.

  Amastan barely heard Menna’s parting words. They’d reached home. Thiyya’s grip tightened as she led him inside, promising Menna she’d keep an eye on him. Amastan went through the motions of reassurance, even finding a smile somewhere. Thiyya trailed him upstairs and lingered in his doorway as if he might bolt. Only when their father called from downstairs did Thiyya finally leave him alone.

  Amastan didn’t wait to see if she’d come back. He retrieved his spare knives from the trunk at the end of his bed and knotted a clean wrap. Then he was climbing out of his window, ignoring the pain in his leg as best he could.

  He headed west, following the twilight’s lingering glow. He remembered the way exactly, and before long, he reached the last platform. He found the alley that faced due west, a railing the only thing between the edge of the city and the beginning of the Wastes.

  But no one sat waiting for him. The alley looked out on darkness, twilight long since faded to night in a splash of stars. The pain in his leg seemed to multiply as Amastan stood and stared. He’d thought, he’d hoped, he’d known—

  “Asaf?”

  Amastan froze for only a heartbeat before spinning around. His leg protested but the familiar sight of those steel-dark eyes was worth it. Yufit stood only a few feet away, head tilted to one side.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “Looking for you,” admitted Amastan.

  A smile warmed Yufit’s eyes. “Well, here I am.”

  “Yeah,” said Amastan. He searched for the words to say what he’d come here to ask, but none came to him.

  “So,” said Yufit when the silence stretched too thick. “Did you do it?”

  Amastan blinked, panic spiking through him. Yufit couldn’t know about the contract, about the killer. But then he remembered what he’d said only a few nights ago, the fears he’d laid bare without any of the details.

  He might not have stopped the killer, but he had completed the contract. “Yes.”

  Yufit waited a moment before prompting, “… and?”

  “… and it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared,” said Amastan. “It was still hard and I hope I never have to do it again, but … I could.”

  Yufit stepped closer and clapped him on the shoulder. “I knew you were strong enough. Now, will you tell me what it was, or are you just going to keep teasing?”

  Amastan’s ears burned hot. He’d made that promise assuming he would have caught the killer in the same night. He was saved from finding a feeble excuse by the scuff of a sandal across stone behind Yufit, in the platform’s center. The platform had become unusually empty and quiet.

  Yufit spun around, revealing a figure standing only a dozen feet away. Amastan had expected Menna or the killer, but it was neither. A man in a familiar bronze wrap stepped closer, black embroidery marking him as one of Basil’s—ma Yanniq’s—servants, the silver on his sleeves showing his rank as gear worker. The man wore no tagel at all, which was jarring enough that Amastan didn’t at first recognize the servant.

  “Megar,” said Yufit, but his tone held a warning.

  Megar smiled, showing all of his teeth. “Where have you been?” The edges of his words blurred together; he must be drunk.

  Yufit placed himself between Megar and Amastan. Megar took an unsteady step toward them, the light shifting across his face. His eyes were red-ringed and watery from drink, but paler than Amastan remembered. The torchlight made them shine. It also glinted off the long metal tool in his hand.

  Amastan’s pulse picked up. Maybe the answer to his problem had been in the first place he’d looked after all. Two killers—yes, that made sense. Megar could have killed Yanniq alone, but he would’ve needed help with the cousins. Now Megar must have come to finish what he’d started. Amastan loosed a knife and pushed past Yufit. He wasn’t about to let Yufit get hurt because of him.

  Megar’s smile remained fixed. He closed the distance too fast and grabbed Amastan’s wrist as Amastan brought the knife up to strike him. Amastan expected him to reek of wine, but instead all he could smell was dust and oil and hot iron. Amastan tried to pull away. Megar’s grip was strong and he held tight. His hand was hot and sweat prickled up Amastan’s arm.

  “Let him go,” said Yufit, reaching for Megar.

  “Wait.” A chill touched Amastan’s spine. Fear. “Don’t touch him.”

  Something was off. Megar should have attacked by now. If he was working with someone else, they should’ve been ambushed. And his eyes—neither hate nor drink filled them, but something much worse.

  Madness.

  “Are you sane, sa?” asked Amastan.

  “No,” said Megar wistfully and Yufit hissed out a breath as if he’d been punched. Megar pulled Amastan close and blew anise-flavored breath into Amastan’s face. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Megar radiated heat. But it was more than the heat of a fever; even through the cloth of his wrap, Megar’s skin was as hot as embers. His hand on Amastan’s arm was growing uncomfortable. Sweat rolled down the back of Amastan’s neck even as the chill of fear filled his chest.

  But I led the jaani away, thought Amastan uselessly. Amastan’s charms had grown
as hot as Megar’s touch, each glass bead an ember against his skin and he couldn’t find any hint of a charm around Megar’s neck.

  “A-saf,” said Megar slowly, relishing the name. But it wasn’t Megar anymore—it was the jaani.

  “Go. Get help. Get a marabi,” ordered Amastan, not looking at Yufit. To Megar he said, “Do you remember who you were?”

  “I’m not leaving you with him,” said Yufit.

  “Then stay back. This might be our only chance to find out where the jaani came from.”

  Megar’s hand tightened, fingers digging into muscle. Amastan winced. The glass beads at his throat flared hotter and one began to let out a high-pitched whistle.

  “I am me,” said Megar, his breath like the steam from a kettle. “I am he. I am we.”

  “Then you’ve got what you wanted, right? Let me go.”

  Megar hissed and his eyes caught the torchlight, flaring with heat and light. “I want you.”

  Amastan slammed his fist down onto Megar’s fingers. Megar jerked back, but he didn’t let go of Amastan’s arm. They both stumbled farther into the alley, Yufit thankfully staying clear. The light shifted and a shadow fell across Megar’s face, but his eyes didn’t dim. They glowed.

  A wisp of smoke curled out of Megar’s left nostril, but he didn’t seem to notice. Panic clawed at Amastan like a cat just outside the door, desperate to get in. He started prying Megar’s fingers off his arm. He managed to uncurl two and this time when he yanked, he pulled free.

  He put a few feet between himself and Megar, feeling Yufit move back as well, and raised his knife. Those too-bright eyes slowly moved from the knife to Amastan’s face.

  “Why are you like this? Who killed you?” asked Amastan.

  Confusion welled in Megar’s bare features like blood in a fresh wound, just as raw, just as repugnant. “A man who smelled of blood and water.”

  He rubbed his hand across his face, then again, pulling at his skin. His movement left a smear of light in Amastan’s vision, like a torch waved at night. It was then that he realized that while they’d both moved into the shadows, Megar still looked as if he were standing in torchlight. He was emitting his own light.