The Perfect Assassin

by K A Doore

  Amastan could feel the heat even from a few feet away. He kept the knife between him and Megar like a shield and muttered what prayers he knew under his breath. He was all too aware of how close Yufit was, of how Yufit was still there. Why didn’t he leave and find help? Amastan touched his neck, his fingers finding reassurance in the solid glass charms. They were warm—they were hot—but they hadn’t broken. The jaani couldn’t get him.

  Unfortunately, Megar could.

  He lunged. Yufit shouted. Amastan danced back, slashing with the knife. It caught Megar’s arm. He hissed and spit and pulled his arm to himself. But instead of blood, warm light welled in the crack and oozed out.

  Megar stared at the crack. It began to spread, splitting apart his arm as if he were made of clay and not flesh. Megar let out a keening wail, his eyes widening. More cracks appeared, branching and spreading like fractures in glass. The light continued to pour, spilling across the alley toward Amastan. He skipped back and away, watching in horror as Megar cracked and fractured.

  It was more than light—it was flame, untethered and wild. The fire licked the air and consumed Megar’s wrap, his hair, his skin. His mouth widened and flames spilled out. His eyes burst and became twin torches. Amastan saw in that caricature of a face the same eyes and mouth the jaani had formed out of red smoke on the rooftop and in the inn.

  Then that face was rushing toward him, Megar’s hands outstretched even as his skin crisped and burnt and blackened and crumbled to ash. That didn’t stop him from grabbing Amastan’s shoulders and shoving his face toward Amastan’s, his mouth widening even further as his skin gave way, cheeks caving in toward swirling brightness.

  Terror froze Amastan to the spot, unable to tear or even look away. Heat enveloped him, at first no worse than the sun, then as fierce as flame. All he could smell was hot iron and ash and all he could hear was a high-pitched whistle, verging now on a shriek, but he couldn’t tell if it was coming from his charms or from Megar—or what was left of Megar.

  It didn’t matter. At any moment he was going to burn up.

  All at once, Amastan became aware of another sound: someone shouting. Hands—real, solid hands—pulled at him and then he was tumbling back, free from the jaani’s grip. Those hands pulled him into Yufit’s arms who held him as what was once Megar fell apart, burned up from the inside out.

  As Amastan’s senses returned to him in a rush, he recognized the voice: Menna. She stood between them and the jaani and shouted a string of unrelated prayers while scattering salt on the ground in front of them and waving a piece of burning vellum in the air. The greasy smoke left behind loops and swirls: words. Amastan wasn’t sure what she was trying to do, but the jaani didn’t try to attack them. It swirled in place, its brilliant light fading to a dim glow fading to nothing but a color, a red smearing the air.

  The jaani tried to lash out at Menna, but it collided with an invisible barrier. It reared back and tried again, only to meet with the same barrier. Then, all at once, it shuddered and leaped into the sky, disappearing above the rooftops.

  The silence the jaani left behind was deafening. Menna let her arm drop, the smoldering vellum dangling from her fingers. Smoke streaked her face and gray ash had settled in her black hair. Amastan shifted and Yufit let him go.

  “G-d,” said Yufit.

  Then he threw up.

  21

  Menna headed straight for the back of Idir’s inn, picking a table that was not quite, but almost, the farthest away from the door and the torches. She fell into a seat with a shudder and a sigh while Yufit went to find the server. Amastan eased himself down, wincing at the pain in his leg. He wasn’t sure, but he might have torn open the wound. It felt damp. He would have to check later.

  Menna peered through her fingers at him. “I swear you have a death wish, ’Stan. You owe me. Big.”

  “How’d you find me?”

  “What, you thought I’d just leave you alone after you almost died?” Menna snorted. “I kept watch on your house. I thought the killer might’ve somehow figured out who we were and come to finish the job. I mean, I would, if it were me. So I saw you sneak out your window. I tried to give you some space when you were talking to your”—Menna cut a glance toward Yufit, a smirk tweaking her lips—“friend, which is why I was a little late. I want you to know you deserved whatever I saved you from, by the way. Now—what in G-d’s holiest names was that?”

  “Megar,” said Amastan. At her blank look, he added, “He’s a servant of Yanniq’s. Was.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like that.” Menna rubbed her face, smearing the soot across her cheeks. “That must’ve been what Elder Dessin meant when he said the jaan were getting stronger and turning into guul. He’d said that the jaan would burn up the bodies they possessed, but I thought he was being metaphorical. I didn’t think—I didn’t expect—nothing like that.” She closed her eyes and let out a long breath. “My G-d.”

  Yufit appeared over her shoulder and set a jar of viscous amber liquid between them. “I pray G-d had nothing to do with that.” He slid into the seat next to Amastan, but his gaze stayed on Menna. “Were you able to speak with your elders?”

  Menna poured herself some wine, but her hands were shaking so much that half of it splashed onto the table. She gave up and downed the little she’d poured. “Yes. That’s where I got the words and the vellum to quiet the jaani this time. They also taught me how to make a barrier.” She stared at the ceiling. “We have … some ideas. Unfortunately, the problem lies in scale. There’re three elements involved in quieting and guarding against jaan: words, ink, and water. We have plenty of the first two.”

  “But it’s the end of season,” said Yufit slowly.

  Menna waved her hand at Yufit. “Exactly.”

  “So we have to wait until the aquifer refills,” said Amastan. “Which could be weeks yet.”

  “We could wait that long,” said Menna.

  Amastan knew that tone all too well. “Or?”

  “Water doesn’t just come from the pumps. It comes from the skies, too.”

  Amastan frowned, trying to understand what Menna meant. All of the aquifer’s water came from the storms, but most of those storms caught on the mountains in the east, where they dumped their water before dissipating. The aquifer that Ghadid’s pumps tapped into stretched all the way from those mountains to the edge of the Wastes. It would take a few weeks for the aquifer to refill. Water came from the skies, but it contained impurities, diseases. The aquifer filtered the rain and made it safe to drink. People sometimes drank rainwater, but only when they were desperate. Doing so risked illness, death.

  But Yufit figured out what Menna meant. He sat up straight. “You think we can use a storm.”

  “I do,” said Menna. “First storm of the season’s usually the biggest. That should be plenty.”

  “But it just comes down,” said Amastan, still confused. “There’s no control. Or do you mean to collect it? I don’t know if we can convince the drum chiefs to allow that in time.”

  “So we go where the drum chiefs don’t have any say over water collection. We lure the jaan somewhere that’ll also give us lots of room and no chance of a bystander getting hurt.”

  This time, Amastan knew exactly what she meant. “No.”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  Yufit looked between them. “Where?”

  “The sands,” said Amastan, hoping he was wrong.

  But Menna nodded. “The sands.”

  Amastan closed his eyes. He knew it was irrational to fear the sands after all he’d been through. He’d faced jaan four times now and survived, jaan much stronger than anything rumored to haunt the sands, and yet the thought of going down there again filled him with cold terror. It was just so big, so empty, and there was nowhere to hide.

  And Menna wanted them down there in the middle of a storm? Storms were violent, dangerous things. Their winds were often strong enough to tear roofs from buildings and to slash apart the
landscape. The sands changed drastically from year to year in part because of the storms that ripped across them. It wasn’t safe to be outside in the city during a storm. Amastan couldn’t imagine what it must be like on the sands.

  “Nothing’s going to be ideal,” said Menna, reading Amastan’s silence. “This whole mess isn’t ideal. But we’ve got to try. The jaani is only going to get stronger and we can’t let it kill anyone else. It’s one thing to be driven mad, but that … that…”

  She trailed off but Amastan could still see that. The light breaking through Megar’s skin, consuming him, his face crumbling to ash even as the jaani still tried to get at Amastan.

  He wanted to throw up.

  He didn’t.

  Yufit filled a glass for Amastan, then topped off Menna’s. Amastan cupped his glass between his hands, but he couldn’t drink. The smell of alcohol reminded him of Megar and churned his stomach.

  “Has a jaani ever done that before?” asked Yufit.

  Menna tapped her fingers on her glass. “No … and yes. When a jaani does something like that, it’s not a jaani anymore.”

  Yufit folded his hands in front of him and waited expectantly. Menna lifted her gaze, caught him watching, and cut Amastan a glance. Amastan nodded: Yufit was a part of this. He deserved to know.

  “This is part of what happens when a jaani’s on its way to becoming a guuli,” said Menna, her voice flat. “Normally, a jaani gets blown about on the sands and grows weak. But sometimes … they don’t. For whatever reason. The elders don’t really know, although they have their theories. Elder Dessin thinks these jaan are able to stay strong by sheltering in bodies, alive or dead. Out on the sands, two or three people die in a sandstorm, their jaan go unquieted. Those jaan would get caught in the wind and go wild, but maybe one stays in a body and lingers there until the next storm, and the next batch of lost travelers. Fresh bodies, a stronger jaani. But too strong—this jaani doesn’t just possess the living, it tears them apart. Like what happened to your friend. The next step is for the jaani to figure out how to build a body that won’t fall apart. And then you have a guuli.”

  “But that doesn’t explain why it keeps finding me,” said Amastan.

  “That could be my fault.” Yufit turned his glass in his hands. “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but could this jaani have something to do with Yanniq’s death?”

  “Why would you say that?” asked Amastan.

  Yufit shrugged. “Yanniq died around the same time that the jaani showed up. Yanniq was murdered, so maybe his body wasn’t found in time.”

  Amastan was careful to avoid glancing at Menna. “That’s possible. But I don’t see how it being Yanniq’s jaani would make any difference.”

  “Can a jaani be angry?”

  “If a jaani isn’t quieted, it will go wild,” said Menna carefully and clearly, as if explaining the concept to a child.

  “I know that,” said Yufit. He sipped his wine. Put the glass down. Picked it up again. “But if its death was violent, if the jaani knew…”

  “You think the jaani might seek revenge?” finished Amastan.

  “I don’t know.” Yufit tilted his glass one way, then the other, watching the liquid inside. “Jaan remember their old lives, even if it’s not much. After all, that’s why they try to possess people, right? Because they remember what it was to be alive. Because they want to be human again.”

  “They want to be whole,” corrected Menna. “A body without its jaani is an empty shell. A jaani without its body is just as empty. They seek an equilibrium they can never achieve again, not until they let go and move on to the next world. But what you’re saying … might not be wrong. If death left enough of an impression on the jaani, it might remember and specifically seek out its murderer. Or it might be enough to twist the jaani into a guuli.”

  Hope flashed through Amastan. “So Megar could’ve been Yanniq’s murderer.”

  Menna pursed her lips. “It went after you, too, remember.”

  “But I didn’t…” started Amastan, before trailing off. He’d been about to say, have anything to do with Yanniq’s death. But that wasn’t quite true, was it?

  Menna met his gaze and he saw his thoughts reflected there. Maybe it wasn’t Yanniq’s jaani after all. They’d found Emet’s body and trapped his jaani. Maybe that was enough to draw its ire.

  “I don’t think the jaani knows who killed Yanniq, either,” said Amastan.

  Yufit nodded and then drained his cup. “I think your friend is correct, Asaf. The jaani isn’t just going after the killer. It’s going after anyone who’s been associated with its death.”

  “Then why would it go after you?” asked Menna pointedly.

  “I…” Yufit looked down, twisting the empty cup in his hand. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

  Menna and Amastan exchanged a glance. Menna looked bewildered. But Amastan’s stomach plunged with sickening speed. He knew what Yufit was going to say, even if it didn’t make any sense. In a flash, he saw what would happen next: Yufit admitting that he’d killed Yanniq, Menna rising from her seat, a blade already in hand, Yufit attacking first. Drawing blood. Menna defending herself. Yufit fast, but not fast enough. And himself, frozen in place, unable to act.

  Not Yufit, he pleaded silently to any who would listen. G-d, jaan, sajaam—he didn’t care. Just don’t let the killer be Yufit.

  “I found Yanniq’s body,” said Yufit.

  Menna dropped her glass, but it only fell a few inches to clatter noisily on the table. She swiped it and set it right again. “What?”

  Amastan stared. Yufit’s words made sense individually, but together they were nonsense. Yufit couldn’t have found Yanniq. They had.

  “He’d been hidden away, as if whoever had killed him didn’t want anyone to know. Or to find him.” Yufit looked around, but the inn was surprisingly busy and noisy—a saddit tournament had taken up several tables and the crowd whooped as two players hunched over their pieces—and no one paid them any mind. “I think that’s why the jaani is so angry. Whoever killed him—they didn’t want his jaani to be quieted. The jaani must know that somehow.”

  Amastan continued to stare. He didn’t bother trying to hide his surprise. After all, he wasn’t supposed to know the details of Yanniq’s death. At the same time, he hoped his surprise hid his blatant relief. Of course Yufit wasn’t the killer. He couldn’t be. He’d only worked for Yanniq for a month, unlike Megar who’d had years to cultivate his resentment. Besides, he had nothing to do with any of the cousins.

  “So that’s why you think the jaani has been after you,” said Menna carefully.

  Yufit poured more wine and swirled the liquid in his glass. “It makes sense. Jaan aren’t known for their reasoning. It must’ve mistook me for whoever murdered Yanniq.”

  Menna nodded slowly, but Amastan saw the hesitation, the questions. He had the same ones. Had Yufit found the body before or after they had? And if before—why hadn’t he told the watchmen? Or had he?

  But Amastan couldn’t ask those questions, not without revealing that they’d found the body, too. That would bring too many questions that, if answered, would unravel Asaf’s whole existence. Although Amastan wanted to tell Yufit who he really was, the time for that wasn’t now. They were too close to real answers. He couldn’t afford any distractions.

  Yufit was still talking. “And the jaani went after Asaf because he saved me from it.”

  Amastan nodded. “That fits.”

  “But there’s still Megar,” pointed out Menna.

  “He was in the inn that day the jaani attacked me,” said Amastan. “He tried to save me.” It could’ve been the other way around, of course—that the jaani had been after Megar instead of him. But Amastan didn’t mention that.

  Yufit’s eyes widened for an instant, then he dropped his gaze and swirled his wine the other way. He didn’t say anything.

  Menna sighed and closed her eyes. “Well, whether or not Megar killed Yanniq,
we have a wild and very angry jaani on the loose. We’ve seen what it did to Megar. I have no reason to believe it won’t do the same to someone else. And it’ll only get worse as the jaani gets stronger.” She opened her eyes and looked pointedly at Yufit, then Amastan. “Since it’s shown particular interest in the pair of you…”

  Yufit gestured at her. “Why not you? You’ve been just as close to the jaani twice now and you fought it both times.”

  Menna smirked. “And won, remember. The jaani knows better than to tangle with me.”

  Yufit chuckled. “Of course.”

  Menna abruptly pushed herself back from the table, her glass empty. “Which is all the more reason I need to stop wasting time hanging with you lowlifes and go speak with Elder Dessin. You”—she leveled a finger at Amastan, her gaze stern—“better not get attacked by a jaani again while I’m gone. And you”—she swung her finger around to Yufit, who raised his eyebrows in an amused smile—“better keep an eye on that one and make sure he doesn’t get into any more trouble. The jaani should be gone for a good day or two, but … walk him home for me, will you?” A sly smile slid across her lips. “Maybe you two can finally confess your undying love and get some real work done.”

  “We’re not—” started Amastan, his ears flaring hot.

  Menna laughed, rolled her eyes, and waved as she left them alone at the table. Amastan watched her go instead of meeting Yufit’s gaze, the awkwardness she’d left behind stretching thick as storm-filled air between them. The wine in his glass held a sudden, immediate appeal and he downed it. The warmth spread from his ears to his cheeks to his throat to his chest and in a few more moments, he felt a little better.

  A hand touched his, warm and rough. Amastan started and looked up into Yufit’s steel-cold eyes. Now they held some warmth and a touch of guilt.

  “You’re okay.” His voice was soft, filled with half wonder, half relief. Then Yufit straightened and pulled his hand back, the warmth leaving his eyes while the guilt sharpened. “You almost weren’t. I froze, Asaf, and because of me, you almost died. If your friend hadn’t come along in time…” He shook his head as if trying to dispel the thought.