The Perfect Assassin

by K A Doore

  “Rema?” said Barag as he reached her. He took her hand between his. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He glanced around, looked behind her. His voice took on a sharp edge. “Where’s Thana?”

  Amastan’s throat closed up. He approached Rema, guilt and fear twisting together into a heavy knot. Had he failed another cousin? Who was dead this time?

  Menna reached behind Rema and closed the door. Now Amastan could see her face: pale and drawn, eyes wide with shock. Her cheek was smudged with dirt. Wordlessly, Rema shoved her fist and the scrap clutched in it at Barag.

  Barag slipped the paper from her fingers and unfolded it. The room held its breath as he held the paper up and read. Then he cursed and turned, took in a breath as if to yell—but let it all out when he noticed Tamella at the foot of the stairs.

  She crossed the room in an instant. She snatched the paper from Barag’s hand and gave it a cursory glance. Then she crumpled it and threw it across the room. She rounded on Rema.

  “What. Happened?”

  Under the force of Tamella’s will, Rema finally spoke. “I don’t—I don’t know. We were coming back. She was right next to me. I had her hand so she wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. But there wasn’t any crowd. It was just us. And then—and then—it wasn’t just us. I didn’t get a look at who. They were too fast. Next thing, I woke up on the ground and she was gone. They left that note.”

  Dazed, Amastan walked over to where the scrap of paper had landed. He picked it up. Read it.

  The roof of Drum Chief Yanniq. When the moon is overhead. Surrender yourself, Serpent, and she will not be harmed.

  It was the killer. Had to be. The coincidence was otherwise too much. In a flash, Amastan understood. This was his fault. He’d let the killer get away. Now the killer knew they were after him, knew they knew. He’d panicked and gone after Thana, but he really wanted Tamella. He’d always wanted Tamella. Yanniq, Usem, Emet—their deaths had been revenge. Megar’s, an accident. Tamella’s would be justice.

  Amastan realized Tamella was staring at him. He still held the piece of paper. She stalked toward him, her whole body tense as if ready to strike. He wanted to shrink away, but he resisted the impulse.

  “What do you know?” she hissed.

  “Nothing,” said Amastan. “I don’t—”

  “Is it him?” asked Tamella.

  Amastan met her gaze and saw she knew, too. She wouldn’t accept a half answer. “Yes.”

  Tamella made a gargled noise, then whirled on the room at large. Her gaze found and pinned Menna. “Go get Dihya and Azulay. This is a family matter now, and we’re going to settle it our way.”

  “Do you think that’s really the best course of action?” asked Barag. “The drum chiefs—”

  “This is our daughter,” snarled Tamella. “I don’t give a damn about the drum chiefs.” She glared at Menna. “What’re you waiting for, girl? Go.”

  Menna started. Nodded. Took off. The door slammed behind her, leaving them in silence. Rema let out a faint sniff. Her cheeks glistened with tears. How long had she been crying?

  Tamella turned to her. “Rema—you’re welcome to stay here tonight. In fact, I insist. There’s an extra bed upstairs on the right. You’ll be safest here.”

  Rema’s eyes widened; she hadn’t considered her own safety. She nodded, dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve, then trudged up the stairs. Tamella watched her. Once Rema had disappeared from sight, Tamella’s gaze fell on Amastan like a hammer.

  “I tried playing the drum chief’s way,” said Tamella. “Even after Emet. Even after Usem. But no longer. The drum chiefs will either understand or they won’t. I don’t care.”

  As she talked, she moved, crossing to the hearth. She picked up the edge of a carpet and yanked it to the side, revealing nothing but smooth stones beneath. She knelt, felt around for a moment, then dug her fingers around the edge of one stone. It lifted easily. She set the stone to one side and pulled out a square metal box, several hands wide and deep.

  Tamella brought the box to Barag’s table and set it there with a thump. Her fingers played along its sides until there was an audible click. She opened the box.

  Barag stood a few feet away, his eyes closed as if in pain. But Amastan drew closer. Dark green fabric pillowed on top. Tamella drew this out with a flourish and the fabric swirled around her. She undid the knots of her wrap with one hand while holding the new wrap in the other. Amastan looked away when she let her wrap fall.

  When he looked back a few seconds later, Tamella had just finished knotting the new wrap in place. The green was as dark as her skin, turning her into a living shadow. She drew out a leather belt next and secured it around her waist. Then: leather straps around her upper arms, her wrists, her chest, her thighs. Then: knives for each of those straps, some as small as Amastan’s pinky, some as long as his hand.

  Tamella looped a fine wire garrote through her belt before drawing out the last item: a smaller, leather box. This she handled with great care, setting it on the table first before opening it. Nestled into the underside of its lid were four large rings. Beneath the rings and secured with a thin loop of leather, was an assortment of small glass vials: poison.

  “Tamella…” said Barag, her name a warning.

  But Tamella ignored him. She ran her fingers across the vials—most filled with a fine, white powder, but some filled with clear liquid—and selected the last one. She picked up one of the rings and twisted it. The top popped open, revealing a small cavity within. Her hands as still as stone, Tamella tapped some of the vial’s contents into the ring. Then she carefully stoppered the vial and closed the ring, returning one to its box with reverence and the other to her finger.

  Tamella straightened, her hands running across her wrap, checking the knots, the knives. As she adjusted her belt, the door opened, closed. Menna led Dihya and Azulay into the room. At least now Amastan could safely discard any lingering suspicions he had about his cousins. Neither of them would’ve laid a finger on Thana in a thousand years. Which made him wonder: did the killer understand what he’d done?

  Azulay looked bewildered, but Dihya saw Tamella and she immediately straightened. A smile ghosted her lips and was gone.

  “What’s going on?” asked Azulay, taking in Barag, Amastan, and the room.

  Tamella finished her check and turned to her audience. “Thana’s gone. And we’re going to get her back.”

  25

  Amastan poked his head over the edge of the roof, scanned the area, then swung up and over. Ignoring the rush of pain in his leg had become almost second nature by now. Menna followed a heartbeat behind, silent as a cloud. The moon hung in the east halfway to its zenith, a half-lidded eye that watched the events unfolding below with neither sympathy nor care. They had hours yet until the appointed time.

  On a nearby rooftop, Dihya and Azulay would be hunting for any sign of Thana or her kidnapper. While they secured the perimeter, Menna and Amastan would hide in plain sight. When the killer arrived, Tamella would approach alone.

  Five cousins against one. The killer had no chance.

  Despite the overwhelming odds, unease stuck in Amastan’s throat. He knew what Tamella would do when they finally cornered the killer. If Thana was all right, Tamella might just show mercy. But if Thana was hurt at all, well—

  Would it be considered murder just because it was outside of a contract? Any other citizen would be excused such violence when their own family had been threatened, but as assassins, cousins walked a thin and fragile line. They served a purpose. They were a tool. And tools weren’t supposed to seek revenge.

  The killer had to stand trial. That was the only way forward. But Tamella clearly wasn’t so inclined and Amastan wasn’t sure he could stop her. If he would stop her.

  But that didn’t matter just yet: they had to find and save Thana first.

  Amastan’s wrap was sticky with sweat. The air hung heavy and hot, as unpleasant as it was unwieldy. He’d had to dip into his pouch of fine s
and to keep from losing purchase on the wall as he’d climbed. He dabbed his forehead with his tagel to stop the sweat from trickling into his eyes.

  The clouds on the horizon had grown with the evening. Now they flickered bright and spat lightning. Every so often, a far-off growl of thunder would reach them, so low that Amastan felt its vibrations in his bones. The wind tasted of wet dust and metal.

  Yanniq’s glasshouse loomed before them, large and quiet. Tamella’s plan required that he and Menna hide in there among the dirt and dried stalks. Amastan couldn’t see anything but vague, motionless shadows inside. Menna reached the glasshouse first, twin metal picks already between her fingers. Amastan scanned the roofline as Menna worked the lock. After only a moment the lock clicked and gave way.

  They slid into the glasshouse. Inside, it reeked of stale dirt, hot metal, and something viscously astringent which Amastan couldn’t quite place. The vents must have been locked for the season. Above, someone had begun to roll a reflective mat out across the glasshouse roof that would cut the sun’s excessive heat. He closed the door behind him. Then he followed Menna between the dark rows of dirt down the center of the glasshouse.

  Menna, just a step ahead of him, gasped. She hurried forward, toward a figure slumped on the floor of the glasshouse. A girl, bound with rope and gagged with cloth, eyes closed and skin ashen. Thana. She’d been left sitting up, leaning back against a bed wall. Her black braids blended in with the soil. No wonder they hadn’t seen her from outside.

  Menna slid to the ground next to Thana and sawed at the thick rope with one of her knives. The rope frayed and snapped, releasing the girl from its grip. Thana slumped farther forward and almost fell, but her eyes snapped open and her hands jerked up and she caught herself. Menna grabbed her arm and helped Thana sit up.

  “Are you all right?”

  Thana’s throat worked as she swallowed, but she didn’t say anything. She nodded even as she glanced around. She took in the glasshouse and Amastan and then her fingers felt her arms, her wrists. She frowned, turned up the edges of her wrap, but there was nothing beneath but bare skin. Amastan understood: she was looking for her weapons. The killer must have taken them.

  “We’re going to get you home,” said Menna.

  Amastan freed a knife from his belt and handed it hilt-first to Thana. The girl took it with relief and tucked it into her boot. Then she nodded and let Menna help her to her feet. Yet she kept glancing around and her unease was contagious.

  “This is too easy,” said Amastan.

  Menna glared at him. That’s when Amastan noticed that the dirt in the bed near the door was shifting. Shuddering. Erupting.

  Amastan didn’t think. He pushed forward and shoved Menna back, putting himself between whatever was clawing its way out of the dirt and Thana. A hand first, followed by an arm, then a head, then—too quickly—a body. A man stood and stepped out of the bed, dirt cascading from his shadow-dark wrap and spattering the ground.

  Cold, hate-filled eyes locked onto his.

  The killer.

  Amastan drew the daggers at his hips, holding one curved blade in each hand. But the killer didn’t attack. Instead, he stepped back toward the door and, without looking, reached behind him and opened it. His gaze still on Amastan, he took another step into the doorway. Then he reached, carefully and deliberately, making certain they saw what he was doing, into the folds of his wrap and drew out a bent piece of metal. As he slowly lifted it over his head, Amastan realized it was a striker.

  Suddenly, the something else Amastan had noticed in the air when they’d entered the glasshouse had a name: oil. The air was tinged with the acrid taste of oil, but he’d been so intent on the figure in the walkway, and it hadn’t made sense—

  Amastan grabbed for Thana and Menna as the man struck a spark. Amastan shoved them both to the ground. For a heartbeat, nothing. Then: the air roared and heat, as intense as the sun’s, rushed at and struck them. Even with his eyes closed, Amastan could see the flames.

  They died down almost as quickly as they’d flared, but smoldering fires lingered and smoke filled the glasshouse. Amastan crawled toward the glasshouse door: shut. On the other side, a dark figure waited and watched. The figure didn’t move as Amastan grabbed the door handle and turned, wincing at the burning metal. Amastan wasn’t surprised when the handle resisted.

  He was surprised that, upon further examination of the handle, there was no way to unlock it from this side.

  They were trapped inside the glasshouse. And, while the fire had mostly subsided, the smoke was growing thicker. The vents were closed. There was nowhere for the smoke to go.

  “Stay down!” said Amastan, dropping to the ground himself.

  The smoke burned his throat and lungs and, even though he couldn’t have breathed that much in already, made his head swim. There was something in the air that tasted different from normal smoke. Regardless of whether or not something had been added to the oil, the smoke would suffocate them if they didn’t get out, and soon.

  Amastan sheathed his daggers and crawled to Menna and Thana, both sprawled on the ground. Menna helped Thana pull her wrap up and around her mouth, but already they were coughing.

  “The glass,” said Menna between coughs. “Break it.”

  Amastan freed a small blade. He sucked in a lungful of relatively clean air from near the ground, then jumped to his feet and lunged over the bed. The tip of his blade pinged off the glass, ineffective as a mouse. Lungs burning, he stepped into the soil to get closer, leaned forward even as his leg protested, and tried again, but the glass resisted. It wasn’t even scratched.

  He threw himself back down to the ground and gasped for air, but even this air was growing too heavy. The world tilted and whirled around him, his thoughts harder and harder to piece together.

  He could do this. He had to do this. No glass was unbreakable. He just had to apply the right kind of force.

  A hand grabbed his and Thana met his eyes. “Ceiling. Thinner.”

  Thana pulled the knife free from her boot, then rolled onto her back and sighted along the blade through the smoke. Then she breathed deep, sat up, sighted again—and threw.

  Glass cracked, broke, shattered. Sharp, crystalline shards rained down around them. A gust of air swirled the smoke, thinning it. The smoke rolled up and out and the next breath Amastan took didn’t burn as much. He got to his knees, then to his feet, following the smoke as it was sucked upward. Around the glasshouse, fires still smoldered and burned, but the initial burst of smoke was gone. In another moment, he could think clearly again.

  Thana pushed past him, running at the door full tilt. Amastan started to cry out, but Thana pulled back her arm and he saw something small and sharp and metallic in her hand. Then she slammed into the door and cracks spider-webbed out from the impact. She struck again and the glass gave way, falling outward.

  Amastan and Menna caught up to her as she stepped out of the glasshouse. Thana froze. They all did.

  The killer had his back to them. Across from him stood another: Tamella. Her gaze flicked past the killer to the three of them and she smiled. “Took you long enough.”

  The killer didn’t move. He stood, hands empty, in the middle of the rooftop. He was surrounded. He was trapped. His plan had failed. In another moment, Dihya and Azulay would join them and it would be five cousins—six if he included Thana, and clearly he should—against one. It was already over.

  So why did he still feel uneasy?

  Twin thumps signaled the arrival of Dihya and Azulay. They approached from opposite ends of the roof, Dihya sauntering, her ax swung casually over her shoulder, Azulay advancing with his machete at the ready. They took up positions on either side of the killer, their postures expectant. But all that time, the killer’s gaze never wavered from Tamella.

  The killer spoke. “Kneel.”

  It was one word, one single word which rang out across the rooftop. Tamella smirked and drew her sword slowly, letting the metal sing out.
Amastan felt ill, as if all the heat in his body had been left behind in the glasshouse. He was mistaken. His ears were still ringing from the explosion. He hadn’t heard right. One word wasn’t enough to know, that voice couldn’t be familiar—

  Tamella laughed. “Have you looked around yet, friend? You’re surrounded. Your captive is free. Your plan is in ruins. How you could be the same man who killed my cousin and brother, I don’t know. If you surrender, I can make this quick.”

  “I poisoned her.”

  This time, Amastan couldn’t deny what he’d heard. He recognized that voice. He’d heard it two weeks ago in Idir’s inn. He’d heard that voice conversing over date wine and he’d heard that voice yelling for help. He’d heard it whisper and he’d heard it grumble and he’d heard it laugh.

  And now, he heard that voice tear apart everything he thought he’d known.

  26

  Yufit.

  “It’s not true,” said Thana, but she sounded uncertain.

  “I have the antidote, but it’s not here,” said Yufit. “If you attack me—if any of you attack me—then the location of the antidote dies with me. Or with her, I should say. If you kill me, I can promise that you won’t have enough time to discover which poison I used before she dies. But I’ll go ahead and give you a hint, Serpent—it’s not one of yours.”

  Thana grabbed Menna’s arm and didn’t let go. From where Amastan was standing, Thana appeared fine. But poisons deceived, a fact Tamella had hammered into them time and again.

  But Yufit couldn’t—Yufit wouldn’t—Amastan’s thoughts stuttered and stopped and started again as he tried to understand what was right in front of him.

  “You’re lying,” said Tamella. But her gaze flicked to Thana.

  “The poison’s been working for several hours already,” said Yufit. “She should be feeling lightheaded and dizzy, with a tightening in her chest.”

  This time when Tamella looked to Thana, the girl nodded. Dihya let out a hiss and held her ax at the ready, but didn’t step any closer.