The Assassin

by P. J. Fox

  “Please,” she said, “I don’t want to.”

  “Keep begging,” he told her, breath hitching slightly, “you do it so beautifully.”

  He held her gaze and, in that moment, something passed between them.

  She stood up. “I’d prefer to walk,” she said, with quiet dignity.

  Chapte Two

  While there were no nice parts of Dharavi—it didn’t even seem like a real city, to a man who’d grown up in Chau Cera, lacking even the thinnest veneer of culture—there were less nice parts.

  This was one of them.

  They stood before the door to the hotel, a sagging, unprepossessing building that looked like it might have started out life as a sanitarium. The lower part of the façade had been painted a vibrant turquoise, the color of pool bottoms, and the sign announced it as the finest lodging establishment in the quarter. Which, alarmingly, it actually was. It had reliable running water, though, and private baths. A room for the night cost less than a cup of coffee back home.

  He held the door for her. “In,” he ordered.

  The look she shot him was unpleasant. She was very brave.

  The desk clerk looked up, mild surprise flashing across his features. He’d hidden it well, but it had been there. The important thing, though, was that he hadn’t wanted it to be there.

  Reaching into an inside pocket, Ceres removed a fat roll of hundred daric notes.

  Passing out large sums of money was one action that would not draw attention, in this part of the city or any other. People would, in fact, take the secret of having accepted a bribe to their graves. If anyone knew, they’d be killed for the sweaty fistful of bills. Money bought medicine, water, food for starving children.

  The man’s eyes widened. People here traded for goods with bits of cardboard and colored plastic. Ceres doubted if either of these two had ever seen an authentic daric note before in their lives, let alone more than one at a time.

  He peeled off several notes and, placing them down on the scarred counter, slid them across to the clerk.

  “There will now be two of us staying in my room,” he said.

  Beside him, the urchin stiffened. Surprisingly, she hadn’t tried to run away. He’d pondered this during the walk back. Perhaps it was dumb fear, but he didn’t think so. In his life, he’d seen men line up to be shot, women wait to be raped. Push most people far enough and they turned into herd animals, sheep waiting numbly for a slaughter they couldn’t think to prevent. But she was different; no one who’d done what she’d done was a coward.

  No, it seemed more like she’d weighed the alternatives and, coolly, decided which one made the most sense. Despite the fact that she’d succeeded in stabbing him with a fork, she’d understood the danger she was in and had gone along with him because she wanted to remain alive, and whole. The more he was forced to damage her now, the less she’d have, in terms of mental and physical reserves, when a suitable opportunity for escape did present itself.

  He approved.

  He led her past the carefully incurious clerk, who no doubt thought he was some kind of pedophile, and up the stairs.

  That was just as well: sex tours were common, here, and protective coloration was a good thing.

  His room was at the end of a sloping, slightly canted hall.

  He stopped her before she could touch the door, hand snaking out to grab her thin wrist. Kneeling down, he carefully examined the threshold. Satisfied, finally, that no one had been in, he opened the door and pushed her inside.

  Rubbing her bruised wrist, she glared at him.

  And then, slowly, amazement at her surroundings began to war with her terror of him. He could see it happening on her face; it was fascinating.

  “I’ve never…seen a room this nice,” she said, more to herself than him.

  He could believe it. Most of the so-called houses in this slum had three walls and a dirt floor—and that was if the inhabitants were lucky.

  “There’s a bathroom,” he offered.

  Her eyes widened. Turning, she darted inside. A moment later, he heard the bolt slide home. Amused, he turned away and sat down at the table. It was small and round and, apart from a bed and two doubtful-seeming chairs, the only furniture in the room. He stretched, and sighed. The window was on his right, the door to the room was on his left, and the door to the bathroom was right in front of him. After picking up the phone and ordering food—he couldn’t go weeks without eating, no matter how vile the local cuisine—he prepared to wait.

  He wasn’t concerned. The bathroom had no windows, and the only air vent was far too small to admit even the tiniest human. And she was tiny: frail and sickly-looking, she couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds soaking wet. He, on the other hand, was several inches over six feet and weighed two hundred pounds, all of it muscle. He flexed his broad shoulders and sighed. No, she could only delay the inevitable so long.

  And then they’d see.

  He glanced out the window briefly. Bisecting the worst of the slum, the Dharavi River moved sluggishly. The longest and largest river on the continent, it supplied nearly half of its population with water—water which was, for the most part, too contaminated to bathe in.

  And people drank it: piss, shit, vomit, blood, laundry detergent, dead animals and God knew what else and of course, one couldn’t forget the industrial waste that poured forth from countless tanneries, factories, distilleries, textile mills and, worst of all, even hospitals.

  He wasn’t supposed to want things, but he wanted to go home.

  The Brotherhood of the Dragon had had complete control over his life since he’d shown up on its doorstep after his parents had died.

  Do not dwell in the past. Do not dream of the future. Concentrate in the present moment.

  We are shaped by our thoughts; we become what we think.

  Attachment is the origin, the root of suffering.

  He was here because he was meant to be here, and that should be all he needed to know. Just another nameless, faceless man, a tool used to achieve a higher purpose. The tool did not need to understand its purpose, in order to function. Indeed, understanding was often unhelpful.

  The food arrived. Paying the clerk, the same clerk he’d seen downstairs, he took it and returned to the table.

  The river was a sick brownish yellow color, like nuclear waste.

  He turned his attention back to the bathroom door.

  The shower was still running, although that didn’t mean anything.

  He and Dharun had trained together, worked together, shared women together—had shared each other, in fact, on occasion, although that had been meaningless. Ceres didn’t like men, he just liked sex and the more meaningless the better. They’d been true brothers.

  He breathed in, and out, maintaining total calm.

  He was good at waiting.

  He’d known from an early age, long before joining the guild, that he didn’t have what other people would refer to as normal emotions. Indeed, he was what other people often referred to as a sociopath, although he wasn’t sure that description was entirely accurate. He did feel things, just not the same things they felt. He felt need, desire, and occasionally…longing.

  For what, though, he didn’t know.

  And then the door opened, and he did.

  She’d wrapped herself in a bathrobe that had evidently been supplied by the hotel. It was much too large on her, pooling around her on the floor. He could just see one dainty, fine-boned foot peeking out from beneath the hem. She was thin, astonishingly so, but under that robe were curves. Curves he thought might fill out, if she ever ate a decent meal.

  She had a delicate, almost elfin quality about her, and she was most definitely not a child. She was, quite simply, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Jet black hair, so dark it was almost blue, cascaded over her shoulders. She was very pale, almost too pale, with high cheekbones and startlingly green eyes. Her lips were the perfect crimson of pomegranates.

  He r
ealized now that he’d thought she was a child because she was so small and frail but, more than that, because her manner of speaking was so simple and direct. It was…surprising.

  Her eyes met his, and narrowed. “Forget yourself, and I’ll show you where else I can stick the fork.”

  I love you. The thought came unbidden and, keeping his face carefully neutral, he gestured toward the other chair.

  “Sit,” he ordered. “Eat something.”

  She sat, but eyed the food dubiously.

  Feeling his eyes on her, she looked up. Her expression was serious, watchful; she wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

  He wasn’t, either, which surprised him.

  He’d never felt the slightest hesitation about killing someone before. Including the man who’d been, he supposed, the closest thing he’d had to a friend. Even killing members of his own family hadn’t made him balk. He’d planned on interrogating the urchin and then, depending on how much she knew and how intelligent she seemed to be, either blinding her and possibly also cutting her tongue out or simply killing her outright and dumping her body in the river. With that chemical composition, it wouldn’t take long for human flesh to decompose.

  But now, seeing her sitting there, across from him…he felt a compelling urge to know more about her.

  He couldn’t explain it, he just had to investigate.

  Perhaps, afterward, he’d kill her.

  Hunger eventually outweighing caution, she nibbled on a slice of pear.

  He watched her eat.

  Her tiny, thin fingers closed around her water glass, and she took a drink.

  Her throat, too, was very delicate.

  She put the glass down, fingers already wet with condensation.

  “Are you going to kill me?” she asked interestedly.

  “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

  She nodded, as though this answer made perfect sense. Experimentally, she tried a cube of cheese.

  The silence stretched between them.

  Eventually, she spoke. “You’re an assassin.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes.”

  “Like him.”

  Like Dharun. “Yes,” he said again.

  She took another sip of water. He thought about crushing her throat with his bare hands, what it would feel like, and felt himself stir.

  God, this was not good.

  “Why?” she asked, still direct.

  “Because he swore an oath,” he told her. “And he broke it.”

  “So you’re going to kill him, just for that.”

  There was the faintest note of disapproval in her voice as she watched him, scared but not cowed.

  “Yes.” And then he found himself explaining. “It’s not some arbitrary rule that’s enacted just for the sake of discipline. We’re not standing on form, here, believe me; there are reasons.”

  “He’s pathetic,” she replied. “You don’t know.”

  “Yes,” he corrected her, “I do.” He paused, thinking of how to frame it in terms that would make sense. He was, of course, limited in what he could tell her. He was no rogue.

  She waited.

  “When people receive certain training, certain…conditioning, and that conditioning goes bad, they can become very, very dangerous.”

  “So it’s true,” she replied, without accusation. “They do do something to you.”

  “This isn’t about the fact that he’s talking,” he said slowly, his eyes still on hers, “although it is, I suppose, in a superficial sense.”

  She seemed to follow this line of reasoning, because she nodded.

  “That he’s…doing what he’s doing means he’s out of our control. Which means he has to be put down.”

  “He’s a broken man,” she told him. “He’s not going to hurt anyone.”

  “First, no he’s not. Don’t presume to speak on subjects about which you know nothing.”

  Her eyes flashed, but she held her peace. Interesting.

  “Second, it doesn’t matter. I shot a rabid dog this morning. Now, it wasn’t the dog’s fault that it got rabies and, I have no doubt that before it did get rabies it was a kind, helpful dog that wouldn’t have wanted to hurt a fly. Most dogs are like that: loyal, phlegmatic.

  “And it was certainly broken; it would have died soon, whether I’d shot it or not. Perhaps in an hour, perhaps in two days. Either way, geologically speaking, a very short amount of time. It was, in short, already dead. But before it realized that, and actually accepted it, lying down and dying as it was ordained to do from the time it was bitten, how many more people would it have infected?”

  She didn’t respond. It was an unpleasant calculus to accept.

  “Moreover,” he continued, “he’s not the object of pity you think he is. Trust me on this.”

  “But—why? Can you tell me?”

  He knew what she was asking.

  “Someone close to him was killed—and not by us.” Which, of course, was why he could mention it at all. “He…chose not to believe the explanation that was given, which is unfortunate. Because, you see, it was the truth.” He met her gaze, and held it. “I might mislead, but I never lie.” And it was true, he never did; people underestimated the power of deception.

  She digested this.

  “Let me guess,” he said, sitting back in his chair, a note of derision creeping into his voice. “The poor, hunted man has sought sanctuary among the noble poor, and now all he wants is to live out his days as—what? Some sort of laborer? Something noble and inoffensive?”

  She nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “And this evil organization, devoted to murder, is out to get him—all for nothing more than leaving, for wanting to live his own life. This evil organization that, as I’m sure he’s wasted no time in pointing out, preferably over beer that someone else is buying, practices all manner of violent, painful rites, brainwashing, drug-induced psychosis, perverted sexual acts and religious mania. They don’t understand that he, the tragic figure, doesn’t like these things and doesn’t want to be forced to participate in them.”

  She nodded again.

  “The one moral man.” He sighed dramatically. “It’s an act.”

  “But you do…do those things.”

  He didn’t answer, instead regarding her speculatively—much, he realized, in the same way she was regarding him.

  “He’s lying to you. I’m not.”

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “I don’t have one,” he replied.

  “Everyone has one.” She tilted her head to the side, slightly, like a bird. It was an oddly charming gesture. “What do they call you, at your day job?”

  He chuckled in spite of himself. “Day job?”

  “What you do when you’re not killing people,” she explained, “to make yourself look like a creditable member of society.”

  “I’m a civil servant,” he told her. It was the truth, if not the complete truth.

  She frowned. “I always knew I hated those women at the welfare office.”

  He laughed outright.

  “They call me Ceres,” he told her.

  She smiled slightly.

  “What’s your name?” he asked gently, after a minute, realizing that he wanted very much to know.

  “Udit,” she replied, sounding almost shy.

  He asked the next question on impulse. He couldn’t for the life of him think why he cared, but, again, he did.

  “Why did you take a shower?”

  “Because I’d never had one before—or even seen one. I wanted the experience before I died.”

  She made this statement with such profound, quiet dignity. His estimation of her rose even higher. To face death so calmly took a presence of mind that few people ever possessed. Moreover, to survive, even thrive in this kind of poverty took courage—and initiative.

  He couldn’t imagine having never seen a shower. He wondered what else she’d never seen.

  “I’m not going to kill
you,” he said, deciding.

  “Are you going to keep me here?”

  It was tempting, he couldn’t deny that. He wanted her.

  He didn’t answer right away, and she spoke into the silence.

  “If you let me go, I’ll come back tomorrow and help you find your friend. There are people I know, people you don’t know, who can provide useful information.” There was no quality of pleading to her words; she was stating a proposal, nothing more.

  He considered it.

  Chapte Three

  When she’d left, incongruously, he’d offered to walk her home. Some habits, he supposed, were too ingrained. He’d been raised with decent manners, by decent people, even if both were long gone. And it had been a long time, a very long time, since he’d seen such an attractive woman. The courtier’s instinct, it seemed, died harder than he’d realized.

  He polished his boots, cleaned his guns, showered and shaved.

  He dressed quickly, with an economy of motion. He did everything with precise, practiced movements; no wasted energy.

  He knew she’d be there, when he went outside. He didn’t know how he knew, he just knew. And, over the years, he’d learned to trust his instincts. He was still a young man by any definition—except, perhaps, the one that truly mattered—but he felt old. Old, and jaded.

  He tucked in his shirt, buckled his belt, fastened the clasps on his boots—laces got in the way—and, lastly, strapped on his various weapons before shrugging back into his jacket. It had been specially weighted with ball bearings sewn into the hems, so it would swing right.

  Looking in the mirror, he saw someone looking back at him that he didn’t recognize.

  Turning, he left the room and, after taking the necessary precautions, went down the hall, down the stairs, through the lobby and outside.

  Udit fell beside him almost immediately, her stride matching his.

  He looked down at her, and she looked up at him. She looked like she could be his child.

  “How old are you?” he asked after a minute, still uncertain.

  “Twenty-one,” she told him.

  “You look younger.”