The Impossible Contract

by K A Doore

  Idir’s words stirred Thana’s memories. She’d begged stories of monsters and jaan from her father when she was younger. Scary stories she’d giggled over and that had later kept her awake in the dark of her room, jumping at every creak of the cooling stones. Stories about jaan that stole into your mind and whirled your thoughts into madness. Stories about guul that stole bodies and picked apart corpses for parts. Stories about sajaam that had once commanded storms and ruled the world.

  And stories about en-marab that had once been marab until they turned against G-d. No longer content to quiet jaan, they’d learned how to control them. Bind them. Where the marab maintained the balance between the living and jaan, the en-marab subverted that balance to enslave both. If you misbehaved, the en-marab would steal your jaani while you were still alive.

  But while jaan and guul could be found in the Wastes, sajaam and en-marab were long vanished from the world, if they’d ever existed at all.

  “Some advice?” said Idir, voice low and close. “Don’t cross that man, ma. Stay out of his way. Our city will be much safer when he’s gone.”

  Thana glanced at the stairs and touched the glass beads at her neck. She’d bought them only yesterday from Salid. Her fingers counted five: one against jaan, two against magic, three against deception, four against bad luck, and five against G-d. Through her wrap, she almost thought she felt the charms’ reassuring warmth.

  “Yes. We all will be.”

  4

  “He entered his room,” said Amastan. “Then he closed the shutters. The light went out a few minutes later and since then it’s been quiet.”

  Thana lay on the roof next to Amastan, the stone under her elbows and upper arms still exuding the day’s heat, watching the dark window that he’d assured her was the mark’s. True to his word, nothing stirred beyond. She scratched her head, fingers hesitating as they encountered little resistance. Gone were the slave knots, replaced by a close shave and several days worth of soft fuzz.

  She’d taken leave of her cousins at home, feigning exhaustion as they’d tried to pull her along for a round of midnight tea, then backtracked to the inn and climbed to where Amastan had been watching, waiting. She’d told him everything that had happened inside, from the mark’s fit of anger to the whore’s ignored attentions to the threats against Idir. His evening had been dull in comparison, broken up only by a handful of drunken fights below.

  “You didn’t see the whore?” pressed Thana.

  “No. But she could have stayed out of sight until the mark closed the windows.”

  Thana considered what they should do if the whore was still inside as she stared out across Ghadid’s nightscape. The moon was only just rising while stars flickered and stared, occasionally obscured by a lost cloud. The city glowed with torchlight, hued glass transforming the light from orange to blue or purple or red. Glasshouses glittered across the roofscape, their budding contents only dark shadows within.

  The vents of the glasshouse behind them were still open, taking advantage of the water-thick air. The churning smell of dirt and cut leaves and crushed dates seeped out, overwhelming any other scents. In another week, the vents would be closed and the glasshouse sealed to retain as much precious moisture as possible. But for now, Thana drank in the smells of life.

  A group of singing iluk crossed the bridge to the next platform, their camels in a line behind. Thana idly traced the path that would lead them all the way to the city’s edge. There, carriages waited to take them down to their caravan. She wondered what those iluk men thought about her city. She’d overheard foreigners talk about Ghadid as if it were a strange and impossible place, but it was stranger that others would build their cities so close to the ground and risk being overrun by dunes.

  Ghadid soared above the sands on pylons built before written history, pylons which burrowed down and down through sand and dirt and clay to the sprawling aquifer below. Each pylon supported a metal platform, which in turn held a dozen and more buildings. Bridges linked the platforms to each other and cables linked the city to the sands. Ghadid crouched like a hesitant cat on the edge of the Wastes, curving around one corner of the unmapped and uninhabitable desert like a crescent moon. Other cities joined Ghadid, some on pylons, some on stilts, some braving the interminably shifting sands, and some had long ago succumbed to dunes.

  Only iluk traveled the sands by foot. Some daring types left the platforms to venture onto the sands alone or in groups, searching for enlightenment, adventure, or G-d. Amastan had been down there twice. Thana herself had only once set foot on the sands, egged on by her cousins. The way the sand had shifted under her sandals had been unnerving. Then, too, there were the wild jaan that haunted the sands, stealing into the minds of the unwary.

  “I think we should move tonight,” said Amastan, breaking through the silence and her thoughts.

  “What?” Thana sat up. “Are you sure? Do we know enough about the mark?”

  Amastan’s smile was subtle, barely touching his eyes. “What do you think?”

  “Now you sound like my mother.”

  “It’s your contract.”

  Yes—it was her contract. Thana straightened. Amastan was never hasty; if he wanted to move tonight, then he had a good reason.

  “The whore,” she said slowly.

  Amastan didn’t meet her gaze, but he nodded. “She’ll have distracted him, maybe even kept him from putting up wards. And if she, uh, did her job, he should be dead asleep.”

  “I didn’t see her go back down. She could still be in the room.”

  “Is it worth the risk?”

  Thana eyed the window, but Amastan’s conviction was enough for her. “Yes. We just won’t wake her. You’re right—this is the best chance we’ve got.”

  “We’ll knock her out first,” said Amastan. “I’ll take care of that, I’ve had more practice and we don’t want to risk killing her.”

  Thana sucked in the warm night air, then nodded. “All right. You’ll go first, get the lay of things. We’re assuming that the mark and the woman are both in the room and asleep. If that’s true, signal me and I’ll follow. You neutralize the woman, I’ll take the mark.” She slipped a knife from the strap on her arm and showed it to Amastan. “Heart first, throat second.”

  “And if he wakes?”

  “Throat first.”

  “Before you can reach him?”

  “You take him,” said Thana. “You’re stronger.”

  “And when do we run?” pressed Amastan.

  A smile came unbidden to Thana’s lips. The familiarity of this back-and-forth was reassuring. Nerves still flickered and spat like lightning beneath her skin, but she was in control.

  “We don’t,” said Thana. “We have one chance and we can be as messy as we need. If we leave the mark alive, he’ll know there’s a contract on him. We can’t risk that.”

  Amastan nodded, the motion both agreement and confirmation that she’d answered his questions well. She rolled her eyes at him; ever the teacher.

  They got to work. With smooth and practiced efficiency, they divvied up the tools of their trade from the pack they’d stashed earlier on the roof. Amastan retied his wrap and tagel, snug and tight, and Thana counted her rings as she’d counted her charms. Two held powdered poison, but the rest were studded with worn stones that would maim flesh if she needed to use her fists. The contract better not come to that; she’d never been good at close combat.

  Thana tied a tagel around her face, then looped a garrote and rope through her belt. She checked the knots of her wrap before finally nodding to Amastan. He returned her nod, then swung over the edge of the roof.

  He reappeared a few moments later, climbing the wall to the mark’s window as silent and quick as a spider. He crouched on the window ledge, head tilted, listening. But it was quiet, or at least as quiet as it ever got with the wind whistling between buildings, flies whining in their ears, and the occasional clatter or shout across platforms.

  Seconds str
etched into minutes as Amastan waited, testing even Thana’s patience. When he finally moved, it was as if he’d never stopped. His fingers spidered around the window frame, feeling for weakness. The frame creaked, moved. Amastan froze. Then, with one finger, he pushed at it. It swung inward.

  Amastan glanced at her and Thana understood his hesitation. Why was the window unlocked? Either the mark was naïve or … or he didn’t have to bother with locks. Kaseem’s warning about the Empress’s marab echoed through her thoughts. Thana touched the glass beads at her throat as Amastan again glanced from the window to her, the movement a question. Abort? Or continue?

  Thana made a circle with her fingers. Amastan made the same sign back, confirming. Continue.

  Amastan looked inside. Then his hand danced through a series of signs. Two fingers: two people. A circle, then a closed hand: sleeping soundly. He paused, then signed that the mark was in bed. A longer pause. It took Thana a moment to understand his next sign, but when he repeated it, it was unmistakable, even across the distance: the second person was on the floor.

  That was … odd. Amastan’s next sign indicated that the person on the floor wasn’t a threat. It must be the whore, then. Thana hadn’t seen anyone else go up with the mark. She repeated Amastan’s signs back to him to confirm. He nodded and gestured for her to join him.

  He went in first. Thana followed, her bare feet hitting the stone floor with only a whisper. She closed the window, its tinted glass subtly shading the room blue. The air was unexpectedly sharp with peppermint and a large, rough bed took up most of the room’s space. In it, a man slept beneath an unreasonable pile of blankets.

  Amastan touched Thana’s arm, then motioned to the floor. Her gaze swept across a dresser, a side table, a trunk, a pair of traveling bags, and—Thana squinted. What was that? Hidden in shadow at the end of the bed was a large, unmoving lump.

  Two fingers. When Thana peered closer at the lump, she could trace the shape of a wrap and the outline of hair splayed across the rug. But the woman wasn’t dead. Her chest slowly rose and fell with shallow breaths. At least they didn’t have to worry about silencing her.

  Footsteps thudded in the hallway, growing louder as they approached. Thana’s pulse quickened, loud as drums in her ears. Light accompanied the steps, shining through the crack beneath the door. The light flashed across the floor, the dark rug, the bright red lips, and caught the whites of half-open eyes. Then the light was gone and the footsteps with it.

  Thana let out a startled breath. Amastan shot her a warning glance, but the mark didn’t stir. Neither did the woman on the floor. Anger as hot as the midday sun blew through her in a rush of realization. The woman was out cold, either by drugs or force. No wonder she hadn’t returned downstairs. She hadn’t been able to.

  At least she wasn’t dead. Thana looked closer, searching for any wounds, any blood. But the woman appeared fine—aside from those half-open eyes and shallow, intermittent breaths. A hand touched her arm and Thana started; she hadn’t heard Amastan draw near. He signed: was she okay? Thana took a deep breath, then nodded.

  Amastan made a circle with his fingers. Thana mirrored the sign and freed a small knife. They’d proceed as planned. Amastan would keep an eye on the woman, senseless as she was, and Thana would take the mark. Nothing had changed. If anything, things had gotten easier.

  Thana approached the bed, her footfalls quieter than wind-blown sand. The mark’s chest rose and fell and rose again with each breath. Even in the dark, without his tagel, his pale features were familiar. It was the same man from Eken’s party all right. In her head, she pictured what was about to happen, mentally practicing the motions before slipping into a calm, focused state as easily as she put on a belt.

  Gently—but swiftly—Thana clamped a hand over the mark’s mouth. He started awake, his body stiffening with surprise, but already she was on the bed, straddling him, her hand pushed hard against his mouth, against his jaw, as she slid the knife up beneath the ribcage and into the heart. She twisted the blade, then leaned into it, putting all of her weight on the knife and smothering his screams with her fist as the mark thrashed. Weakened. Stilled.

  At least, that was how Thana had visualized it. She’d only brought her hand halfway to his mouth when something grabbed her shin. Fingers. It took all of her training not to jerk away or yelp. Instead, she froze. Something scuffed across the floor behind her, hitting the wooden dresser. A tinny, jangling sound zinged through the room. One of her charm’s beads shattered, glass drizzling down her chest. The fingers holding her twitched but didn’t let go.

  Thana made the mistake of looking down as she twisted away. She choked on a cry. Fingers were indeed wrapped around her ankle, fingers attached to a hand on an arm that belonged to a body. The woman’s body.

  She’d twisted on the ground until her head was tilted up at an unnatural angle, open eyes staring at Thana. No—through Thana. Those eyes were unfocused and unseeing. The woman scrabbled at Thana with her other hand.

  Thana recoiled, stumbling and flailing for balance when the woman didn’t let go. She glanced to Amastan for direction or help or anything, but he was just standing there, as if he’d been fired to glass. What in all of G-d’s holy names was wrong with him?

  Then she realized he wasn’t looking at her, but just behind. He shouted a wordless warning, his hand finally going for one of his knives, but Thana was already turning. Too late. Darkness burst, filled her vision. On its heels came pain, sharp as a whip in her skull. A second glass bead shrieked and shattered. While the darkness and pain quickly faded to echoes, her neck burned from the heat of her remaining charms. Thana completed her turn, knowing what she’d find. But she hoped—dreaded—all the same.

  The mark sat up in bed, awake and naked but for the sheets piled at his waist. He was blinking away sleep, one finger hovered mere inches from her skin. Thana jerked back, out of reach. The woman weighed her down, kept her from getting far.

  The mark shook his head as if he could clear it, his gaze sharpening on Thana.

  “Who in all the fifteen hells are you?”

  Thana never had a chance to reply. At that moment, both the door and window burst open and men poured into the room.

  5

  Shards and fucking dust—

  Two men crawled in through the window and three more blocked the doorway. Thugs, by the look of it. Had the mark hired them for protection? They wore differing cuts and colors of wrap, as if they’d just walked in off the street. Perhaps they had. They certainly weren’t professionals; they moved with all the grace of drunken mules. That didn’t mean they still couldn’t get in her way.

  Thana briefly entertained the idea of taking them out, but just as quickly dismissed it. One or two they could’ve handled easily. But five upped the chances that she or Amastan would have to kill, and they’d only been paid for the one life.

  Two more glass beads sang and shattered as something brushed her arm. Thana jerked and turned. In her momentary distraction, the mark had lurched forward and touched her again. Now she only had one bead left. Considering the strength of that last attack, it might not be enough.

  She needed to grab Amastan and get out of here. Now.

  But as the men advanced, steps stumbling and slow from drink, Thana caught a flicker of confusion in the mark’s eyes, his gaze flicking from her to Amastan to the men and back again. He didn’t know who these men were, either. All the better—maybe they’d kill him instead. Thana wasn’t going to wait around and see.

  First, she had to get free. Thana pried at the woman’s fingers with her dagger. But before she’d freed two, the woman’s other hand grabbed her wrist and yanked Thana to the floor. As Thana fell, the men rushed forward, hands raised but otherwise weaponless. What were they doing—?

  Darkness surged again across her vision, but this time there was no pain. Bodies thumped the ground like drumbeats, the vibrations pulsing through the stone floor and up her cheek. Before Thana could extract herself from the w
oman’s viselike grip, another hand grabbed the cloth at her neck and hauled her back. The woman finally let go as Thana’s new attacker tossed her to the ground in the center of the room.

  Thana’s head hit the stones with a sharp crack. Black spots burst before her eyes and she hastily blinked them away. Pain spread down her neck and shoulders, but it was sharp and shallow, only a distraction and nothing to worry about. Her real problem met her gaze with too-pale eyes.

  Heru Sametket stood over her, expression calculating and cold.

  Thana felt a thrill of the same fear she imagined Idir must’ve felt back in the inn. She still had one charm left, but the others hadn’t been very effective against the marabi. Whatever wards he was using were beyond Salid’s protections.

  Calm slipped across her, cool as old leather. Thana was going to die. Her mother had taught her how to recognize the moment when failure was imminent. You’ll know you’ve lost when you can stare death in the eyes and know only calm.

  But that didn’t mean Thana had to accept it.

  Thana kicked, caught Heru across the back of his knee, and twisted her body away to avoid whatever he might throw at her next. She freed two small knives and flicked them at the mark. This close, her aim wasn’t perfect. One knife struck and bounced off his sternum and the other slid through ribs to lung, but not heart.

  Heru grunted, staggered back. Thana was already on her feet, running for the door. She grabbed Amastan and pulled him along and out of whatever fugue he’d fallen into. In another moment they’d be free of the room and flying down the stairs, putting as much distance between them and the marabi as possible, the contract shattered, but she and Amastan still alive.