The Impossible Contract

by K A Doore

  All it’d take was an “accidental” shake to loosen Thana’s grip and send her tumbling to the sands far, far below. Or he could loosen the wire from its mooring just beneath his palm. He could also simply bind her jaani from a distance; Salid’s charms should protect her, but the attempt might be enough to unsteady her. Either way, Mo wouldn’t blame Heru. Thana swallowed and tightened her grip on the top wire, but didn’t dare look away.

  Heru made his decision and stepped onto the wire. Thana let out a small breath of relief—of course he wouldn’t really try to kill her—before finishing the crossing. Once Heru was halfway, Mo shoved her staff through the straps of her pack, then fixed her gaze on a rooftop opposite and put her foot on the wire. After that, she didn’t look down once until she’d grabbed Thana’s hand on the other side and had both feet on solid ground.

  She gave a small, hollow laugh. “That wasn’t so bad.”

  “I suspect your people burned this bridge themselves,” said Heru. “From here on out, we should expect every bridge to be destroyed like this one.”

  Mo shot him a sharp look, her eyes wide. She leaned against Thana for support and held tight to her hand. This close, Thana could feel Mo’s body shaking like a caught rabbit. Thana did her best to project confidence, even though she didn’t feel it. She surveyed the new platform, but it was more of the same. Flames licked across rooftops and blood decorated every surface. There were more piles of furniture here, half-blocking the street. Broken glass littered the stones, glittering in the firelight and crunching underfoot.

  “Over here,” said Heru.

  He’d hurried ahead and now stood next to a caved-in ruin of a building, what had once belonged to her neighborhood’s glassworker. Thana joined Heru. He pointed at something indistinct just beyond the shattered door. She peered through the shifting smoke and ashes at a charred and bloody hunk of wood or maybe it was—

  Flesh.

  Thana turned and breathed deep, trying to suppress the sudden urge to be sick. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the acrid taste of smoke until the nausea faded.

  “It’s an arm,” said Heru helpfully.

  Her mind’s eye replayed the details for her. Now Thana could discern the hand and its fingers, the torn skin and bloody muscle, the dull white of bone protruding where an elbow had once been. Her stomach roiled again and this time Thana couldn’t stop it. She bent over and was sick.

  An arm wrapped around her waist and a cool, slightly damp cloth pressed into her hand. “You okay?” asked Mo, her voice low and close.

  Thana wiped her mouth with the cloth. “I’ve been better.”

  Mo nodded, patted her back, then let go and approached the building. Still bent double, Thana closed her eyes and waited for the nausea to recede.

  “The arm was torn off,” said Mo from a distance. “See how the skin is ragged around the—”

  “Please,” said Thana. “Is this necessary?”

  Silence. Then Mo said, “I’m sorry.”

  Thana straightened, wiped her forehead with the clean side of the cloth, and turned to the other two. What could have done this? No man, no bandit, no warrior. But then, she’d fought something like this once—twice—before. Yet it was too much to wrap her mind around. When she tried anyway, something twisted deep inside of her, numbing her. None of this felt real.

  Thana forced herself to focus on the feel of the cloth in her hand, the hard stones under her feet, the air thick with heat and smoke. She couldn’t let herself shut down, not now. She blinked away tears and tried to think. What would Amastan do?

  But this wasn’t one of their contracts. This wasn’t a mark to find and kill. This was her whole city—her whole world—hollowed out and burned to ashes. This was a man who should have been dead.

  “We know who did this.”

  “You think it was Djet?” asked Mo.

  Thana met Heru’s gaze. “Who else?”

  Heru nodded. “That would explain the lack of corpses.”

  Mo gestured. “But the arm—”

  “Yes,” cut in Heru. “An arm. Just an arm. I’m fairly certain that is the exception that verifies my hypothesis.”

  “The towns that disappeared,” said Thana through numb lips. “You remember—right before his death. We thought it was just more rumor and hyperbole. But what if it wasn’t?” She pointed at Heru. “You said something about an army of bound before we came up here. What did you mean?”

  “The question should be: why not?” said Heru. “An army of bound would be unstoppable. They could cross the desert in a quarter the time it’d take a living army, and they wouldn’t need food nor water. The only thing that troubles me is why now?” Heru paused for a moment, gaze unfocused. “Unless he plans to use them for the sajaami.…”

  “What’re you saying?” asked Mo. “That Djet bound everyone in Ghadid?”

  It was one thing for Thana to feel that suspicion creeping into her consciousness, but another entirely for Mo to voice it aloud. She couldn’t breathe.

  “No.”

  “Actually, I’m fairly certain she is correct,” said Heru. “It’d explain the lack of corpses. But this category of large-scale binding takes time and forethought. There’s no way he could have done this overnight, for instance. Djet must have been planning this since I first came to Ghadid—where are you going?”

  Heru’s voice drifted through Thana’s awareness as if from a distance. Her chest ached, broken and cracked as wide as the gap they’d crossed moments before. If Djet had been here … if there were no corpses … if everyone—

  Thana ran. Through the dull roar filling her ears she just barely heard shouting—surprise, a question, then a command to stop. She ignored it.

  She was only two platforms away from her neighborhood. She marked wrecked storefronts and charred signs and changed direction as needed. She dodged around more debris and climbed a heap that cut off a street entirely. Then she was on the other side of a gap she must have crossed, but couldn’t remember. If not for the red, stinging lines on her hands from the hot metal wires, she could’ve flown.

  No. Her heart and legs and arms pumped together, efficient as gears and just as merciless, throwing her forward, ever forward, toward a truth she didn’t want—but had—to see.

  Ahead, the street opened onto a platform’s center, one just like the dozen plus they’d already passed through. Except here, one door was a dusty red, its once vibrant paint long since faded under the harsh sun. Thana knew the shape of that door even before she could see its details, could feel the weight of its wood, the turn of its handle.

  But half of it was gone, burned away to ash and dust. Scorch marks charred the wall to one side and the long window that ran next to it was little more than a gaping, dark hole, its glass melted and dripping beneath it.

  No.

  Thana pushed through the door, its edges crumbling beneath her hand. She froze just inside, her heart stopped. The room where she’d mended sandals by the hearth, sharpened knives under her mother’s exacting gaze, and sorted and filed her father’s scrolls was barely recognizable. The floor and ceiling and walls were black with soot and scorch marks. The hearth stood out in the darkness, its stonework strangely pale. But the rest—

  Thana’s eyes smarted. Her father’s scrolls. The shelves that had filled half the room. His life’s work. All of it: gone. The shelves were broken piles of rubble and there was nothing left of the scrolls themselves save for ash.

  She wanted to sift through the ash to find something, anything, to save. Then, after, when she found her father, she could hand him one undamaged scroll and starting again wouldn’t be so impossible. Because if there was nothing to save, then that meant—then that meant—

  Thana kicked through the debris to get to the stairs. Made of stone, they’d withstood the fire that had rushed through and claimed everything else. She flew up them, two at a time, her mind buzzing with emptiness, her cheeks wet.

  No.

  The second floor wa
s a quiet, private space. One where her parents had talked late into the night with each other, with family, with cousins. One where her mother had brought younger cousins and showed them poisons, knots, and knives. Off this space were several doors, leading to bedrooms. Normally, these were closed. Now they were wide open, half-burnt.

  Scorch marks curled up the walls. The pillows and cushions and rugs were gone, reduced to ash. But the purple cloth that her mother had hung on the wall was only half gone, its color a vibrant rebuke. Something dark had been splattered across it.

  “No.”

  Thana slumped against the wall, dizzy and weak. She could no longer deny what had happened. Blood streaked across the floor, in spatters and pools and long, dragging marks. Her parents weren’t here. They were dead and bound and it was her fault. The world crumpled, shrinking and shattering into too many uncountable pieces.

  If she hadn’t left—

  If she’d only stayed—

  If she’d warned someone—

  This was her fault. She stared at the mess, searing it into her vision and memory as if her own pain could undue some of the horror. She’d killed her parents as surely as if she’d wielded the knife herself. Her ineptitude, her inability to kill Heru the first time, her idiotic decision to chase him on her own, her inexcusable irresponsibility in not involving the marab, her sheer arrogance thinking she could handle this alone. She, a mere child in the eyes of her family. She, with only a handful of contracts to her name. She, of all people, thinking she could become a legend. She might have laughed if she could feel anything but numb.

  A wet cough snapped her out of those dark thoughts. Thana was moving before she’d even recognized the sound. It had come from inside one of the rooms: her mother’s. Another, louder cough made her sudden flicker of hope flare and burn, hot and fierce and painful. It couldn’t be—but maybe—

  Thana stopped in the doorway. The window was shattered, but the room was otherwise as her mother would have left it: bed made, clothes folded, spare sandals beside the door. Thana looked at none of those. Instead, she stared at the huddled mess of flesh and cloth and blood just feet away. It stared back at her with equal surprise, then reached for her.

  “Thana?”

  23

  “Salid!”

  The charm maker was a mess. Blood oozed from ragged gashes on his arms, chest, and legs, and a chunk of flesh was missing from his neck. His chest rose and fell with shallow, shuddering gasps, but his eyes were open and bright. Thana crouched beside him and took his hand between hers.

  “Thana…” His voice was hardly more than a whisper and even that much took a lot out of him. “What are you … doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” said Thana, matching his volume.

  Salid’s eyelids fluttered and Thana tightened her grip, but he didn’t lose consciousness. “I knew this house … would be empty,” he said. “I set some of the fires. I was supposed to set more, but … there were too many. I came here to … because…” He trailed off and lifted his arm, as if she could have missed the wounds.

  “You’ll be okay,” said Thana. “We have a healer below. Save your breath.”

  She tried to let go of his hand to help him up, but Salid’s grip tightened. “No. It’s too late … for healers. You need to know … what happened.”

  “Below, you can tell me below,” repeated Thana. “You’re going to be okay.”

  But Salid ignored her. “Monsters. So many … started with just a few. Nobody knew … what they were. Not at first.” He paused for a long moment, eyes closing, long enough that Thana started to worry, then his eyes snapped back open, found hers, focused. “They were our own. People died … but didn’t stay dead. They came back … like a plague. Amastan guessed … I knew … we tried to stop … but too little. Too late. Your cousins fought … but too many. More climbed the cables. Came from the sands. And someone … led them. In red.” He closed his eyes, his breathing shallower now, rasping. “There were so many. Too many. G-d.”

  “Shh.”

  Thana touched Salid’s forehead and jerked back: he was as cold as a corpse. He was slipping away fast. She had to get him downstairs. If he died, she’d lose any remaining connection to her parents, her cousins, to Amastan. Salid would know where they were and what had happened to them. He must.

  When he opened his eyes again, they were unfocused. “When we couldn’t … stop them, we burned … the city. Amastan evacuated … the others. Your ma fought, but … too many. No one could have…” He shook his head, unable to catch his breath and continue.

  “She—?” started Thana, but the question stuck in her throat. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

  “The man was … too strong,” said Salid. “Even for her. I’m so sorry.”

  Thana noted dimly that she felt nothing at all at the news. “You can tell me what happened later.” She was finally able to slide her hand out from his. “You’re going to live.” She put every ounce of certainty she had left into that sentence and for a moment, she almost believed it.

  Salid attempted a laugh, but it came out a harsh cough. “It’s too late … for healers.”

  “No,” snapped Thana. Her anger flooded back. “It’s not. She’s right downstairs. We have water. If you can’t go down, I’ll bring her up.”

  But as Thana stood, Salid reached up and grabbed her wrist, his grip weak but urgent.

  “Don’t—it’s too dangerous—”

  “There’s no danger anymore,” she said. “The city’s empty. Just hold on—I can make it right. I promise.”

  Salid let out a dry chuckle. “Promise? Did you bring … my pages?”

  Thana flinched. “I’m so sorry—”

  “Shh.” Salid squeezed her hand. “All’s … forgiven. It doesn’t matter. Thana … you can’t stay. Leave me. Before I die. Go.”

  He released her wrist and gave her a feeble push, but Thana didn’t budge. His wounds, his breathing—he was right. There was no point in bringing Mo up; it would only upset her when she was unable to help.

  “I won’t leave,” she said. “You deserve more than that. You helped our family for so long. And look—” Thana pulled aside her wrap, revealing the top of Salid’s glass belt. “It’s kept me safe. You should make more of these. I think you could make a small fortune, especially once the drum chiefs heard of them. And the Azal will love them, too—think of how useful they’d be in the Wastes.”

  She knew she was babbling. Her words sounded inane even to her own ears. But she couldn’t stop herself. If she stopped, Salid would slip away.

  “Thana…”

  Her name was barely a sigh. Salid closed his eyes and slumped back. His eyelids fluttered and twitched, but he didn’t open them again. Thana sat with him and held his hand, watched as his breathing grew more labored, then shallow, then intermittent. It wasn’t long before the pauses between each breath were so deep that she had to check his pulse to see if he was still alive.

  In the end, the next breath never arrived. His lips parted to let out a sigh and then his chest didn’t rise again. Thana let go of his hand and it dropped, thudding against the floor with a finality that took all the air out of the room.

  Her cheeks were damp, her eyes burning and blurring with tears. She didn’t know when she’d started crying. She touched Salid’s closed eyelids and muttered a prayer. Maybe Heru could perform the final rites and quiet his jaani, if only for a little while. But a little while might be enough for someone else to return and find him. After enduring all this, Salid deserved more than for his jaani to go wild.

  Thana took her time standing. She dug her fingernails into her palms to feel something, but the pain that burst like stars in her hands was just as distant. She wanted to scream, to cry, to throw something, but she lacked the energy. All she could do was stare at Salid’s body.

  Your ma stayed to fight, but … too many. I’m so sorry.

  Her mother, Tamella, the Serpent of Ghadid, the woman w
ho’d stopped a civil war, killed a drum chief, and become a legend—dead. It didn’t seem possible, couldn’t be possible, and yet Thana couldn’t deny it, not when her home lay in ruins around her.

  And if even her mother had succumbed, then what about the others? Dihya, Illi, all her cousins, her father—? At least she could cling to the small hope that Amastan was still alive. But everyone else? Wounded, dead—or worse.

  Thana’s hands tightened into fists. A man had led the monsters.

  Djet.

  The horrifying understanding that had driven her across burning platforms for evidence that could prove her wrong now hardened into certainty. Djet had been here. He’d swept through her city with his monsters and enslaved her people. Her mother and her cousins had fought back, but it hadn’t been enough. Now they were gone, bound to Djet’s will and headed for—for where? For what purpose?

  And Thana thought she could stop him?

  A noise bubbled out of her throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. How could she stop Djet when even her cousins had failed? She was a fool. If she hadn’t been so arrogant, so certain that she could live up to, even surpass, her mother’s name, then she wouldn’t be here, now, kneeling in blood and ash.

  No, said Amastan softly. You’d be dead, like your mother.

  Always logical, even when he was in her head. But it was all she could do to keep standing, let alone avenge a city.

  Salid groaned, a rattling sound that came from deep within his chest. His foot kicked out, then his arm. Thana stepped back, not frightened, only wary. She’d watched enough people become bodies to know that this was normal, that this was a release of any lingering energy and eventually a release of their jaani. She started to turn—

  Salid sat up. Thana jumped, a knife already in her hand. Salid’s eyelids snapped open, revealing glazed, unseeing eyes. Thana shook her head, her heart lodged in her throat. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t fair.