The Perfect Assassin

by K A Doore

  Would that be so bad? Tamella expected one of them to fail and it might as well be him. After all, he was the one who’d begun to wonder whether or not he could really be an assassin. It’d all been fun when it was theoretical: a set of skills to master, a family legacy to uphold. But as the day of his final test approached, the reality of his new profession set in. Doubt had spread its smoky tendrils through him as the question he’d brushed aside so easily in the beginning returned like a wild jaani whispering in his ear:

  Could he kill?

  Something hissed, angry and sudden. Amastan whipped around, a knife already in his hand. But there was nothing, no one, for as far as he could see. His heart thudded, heavy as a rock. The hiss came again, but this time he realized it was only the wind rushing across the sand. The emptiness was getting to him.

  Never mind failing. He had to get off the sands. The carriage wasn’t coming, wouldn’t come, and there was only one other way up.

  He took the sand shoes off first and left them next to the pole. He used his knife to cut a notch in the bottom of his wrap, then tore off a long strip. He cut the strip in two and wound one piece between his fingers and across his palm. He tied a knot just below his wrist. He balled his hand into a fist, adjusted the fit, then did the same to his other hand.

  With his hands protected, he unwound the rope from his belt. Like before, he looped it twice around his waist and tossed one end over the cable. This time, he twisted a loose knot around the cable before tying the rope off at his belt. He tested the knot. It slid up the cable until he put his weight on it, then it tightened and held. Good.

  He squatted deep, then leapt high, grabbing the cable at chest level. With a heave and a swing, he hooked one leg over it. He hung sideways for a breath, then he swung the other leg over. He swayed upside down from the cable while he tested his weight and strength. Then he made the mistake of sighting along the cable at the distance he must climb. It was so far.

  Too far.

  The words were so low he almost thought they were his own. The wind had picked up, its hiss become a whistle become a low moan. Amastan hummed a prayer, then focused on the cable right before his eyes. Hand over hand, foot by foot—that was his plan.

  He began climbing.

  The cable was taut enough that it didn’t swing, but it bounced just a little each time he moved. He held tight with one hand and reached as high as he could with the other. He followed his hand with his body, pushing off the cable with his legs while he pulled with his arm. Then he slid the knot the half foot or so he’d climbed before repeating the whole process.

  Too far, said thoughts that were not his.

  Jaan talk in your voice, said his sister, eyes alight with candle glow.

  Was his charm hotter than before? The wind louder? For a moment, all Amastan could do was hold on, paralyzed by his fear. But he had to move, had to get away. So he kept climbing.

  The first few minutes were easy. His arms were strong and he made it several feet before taking a break. He looped his arms around the cable and hung for a moment, his muscles burning.

  Too far, said the jaani. But this time Amastan ignored it.

  The next few minutes were more difficult. His muscles kept burning, even when he rested. Minutes blurred into hours and days and became endless and Amastan refused to think about anything but the next movement. Slip the knot forward, stretch, grab, pull. Ignore the sharp pinch and the growing fatigue in his shoulders. Repeat. Repeat.

  Repeat.

  He only made the mistake of gauging the remaining distance once. While he could see the platform’s edge, it was still miles and miles away. For a moment, his stomach plummeted. He wondered what was so bad about letting go and falling. Everything hurt, everything burned, and he couldn’t possibly go any farther. But this time, there was no voice in his head.

  This realization gave him a burst of energy. He brought his gaze back to the cable and slipped the knot farther along. Stretch. Grab. Pull.

  When he finally crossed the platform’s edge, he didn’t notice. His outstretched hand touched cooling metal and he started out of his trance. He looked up to see a carriage in his way. Then he looked down.

  He hung above the platform, having crossed over the edge several feet ago. He stared at the solid ground so tantalizingly close, but his arms and legs were too stiff to move. He’d have to hang here until morning, when the watchmen would find him and unhook his limbs.

  “Congratulations, Amastan,” said a voice from the darkness. “You’ve passed. Now stop being ridiculous and come down from there.”

  2

  The voice cut through Amastan’s exhaustion. He opened eyes he didn’t remember closing and blinked away sand. The speaker stood near his feet, their back to the moon.

  “Just drop. It’s only a few feet.”

  Amastan slowly unhooked one leg, then the other. Once his ankle passed the cable, his lower body dropped and his bare feet hit solid ground. Wonderful, G-d blessed, solid ground. He kept one hand on the cable to steady himself as he swayed. When he was confident that he wouldn’t topple over and off the edge of the platform, he looked at the speaker: Tamella Basbowen, the Serpent of Ghadid, the most dangerous person on or off the sands. His teacher.

  Tamella was a half inch shorter and equally lithe. Her muscles were smooth cords that shifted beneath her skin when she moved, her strength apparent in the way she held herself, loose but ready. She wore a dark brown wrap that matched her skin. Her hair had been woven into three thick braids and twisted into a knot at the base of her neck. Silver streaks ran through her otherwise black hair and claws crinkled at the edges of her sand-brown eyes.

  Grinning, Tamella stuck out her hand. Three large brass rings studded her fingers. Amastan knew what was in those rings—poisons to make you sick or stop a heart—but took her hand anyway.

  He’d expected to feel excitement when he passed his test, or at least relief. But all he felt was exhausted and sore.

  “Now what, ma?” he asked, hoping the answer included a pillow and bed.

  Tamella’s grin faltered, but didn’t fade. “Right. What next? Well—I have one last lesson for the four of you.”

  That didn’t sound like bed. “Tomorrow?” asked Amastan hopefully.

  Tamella shook her head, her grin finally fading. “Now. It may be the most important lesson of your training, and you need to understand it, even if…” She trailed off, her gaze sliding away. “Well, I’ll get to that, too.” She turned and snapped her fingers at him. “Come. The others are already there, waiting for us.”

  “Where?”

  But Tamella didn’t answer and Amastan hadn’t expected her to. She took off at a fast walk, her long stride forcing Amastan into a jog to keep up. Then she rounded a corner and by the time Amastan reached it, she’d disappeared.

  He didn’t bother following the narrow alley any farther. He knelt and ran his palms along the stones, picking up the fine sand accumulated there. He straightened and rubbed his hands together to clean off any oil or sweat. He gave the wall a cursory glance, picking out divots and pockets in the well-worn and sun-bleached bricks.

  Then he began to climb.

  His arms and shoulders protested, but the sharp soreness soon gave way to a dull ache. It was only a few seconds’ climb to the roof. Tamella hadn’t waited; she was already halfway to the next rooftop and lengthening her stride into a run. Her movements were smooth and effortless, graceful as a cat. Trying to match her now made Amastan feel every imperfection and misstep.

  Tamella slipped ahead. She leaped from rooftop to rooftop with ease, finding the narrowest space between them without any hesitation or thought. She knew Ghadid’s roofs better than anyone alive and she could be on the opposite side of the city in half the time it would take even Menna, the fastest of his cousins.

  Amastan had to slow down to make the jumps and occasionally resorted to finding a board to cross. Tamella pulled even farther ahead, became little more than a silhouette against
the dark sky.

  Thankfully, she didn’t lead him too far. After crossing several platforms, Tamella disappeared over the side of a roof instead of leaping across. Amastan clambered down to the ground below and found himself in a small courtyard, a squat building across the way. Dread dropped like a rock into the pit of his stomach as he realized exactly where they were.

  Tamella had brought him to a crypt.

  “No,” said Amastan.

  But Tamella wasn’t close enough to hear. She’d already crossed the courtyard, heading for the crypt. Lamps burned bright on either side of the thick metal door, their orange glass bathing the area around them in a warm, inviting glow. Charms hung all around the door, simple lengths of beads that glittered in the torchlight as well as intricate stringworks. Beneath one of the lamps, a pot brimmed with baats—more than enough to provide a large family with water for several comfortable years. Mourners left behind what they could to pay for the water the marab used.

  As he neared, he could make out the intricate carvings in the metal: a network of powerful symbols and words to keep what was inside, inside. He might not have the fear of G-d that his father had tried so hard to instill in him, but he had a healthy fear of the dead. He’d only had reason once to go into a crypt and he never wanted to repeat that experience. Yet here he was, weighing his discomfort and fear against Tamella’s displeasure.

  One of which easily won out.

  Tamella had already gone inside. He eased the door open with his toe and followed. The door closed behind him, cutting off the torchlight. But he’d seen the railing at the room’s center and he knew where he had to go.

  Amastan caught the railing with his outstretched hand. He slid his palm along its warm, worn wood until his foot caught on empty space: the top of the stairs. By then his eyes had adjusted to the light that poked around the door’s edges and he could tell the difference between the dark room and the true darkness into which he was about to descend.

  He took a deep breath. He’d faced the sands alone, where jaan ran wild. He could face a simple crypt, where the jaan were at least quieted. He kept one hand on the smooth stone wall and quested for each step with his toes. Slowly, methodically, in total darkness, he descended.

  After the stairs’ first turn, the darkness thinned. He could pick out the lines of each step and the uniform gray of the wall under his hand, which had transitioned from stone to metal. After the second turn, the stairs abruptly ended in a door. Light from beneath let him find the handle. It gave under his hand, dispelling any lingering hope that he was in the wrong place, that Tamella was only playing with him and had slipped out a side door.

  The marab would never have left this door unlocked.

  The door opened onto a curved room filled with syrup-thick light, as stale as the air itself, which was heavily spiced with cinnamon and anise. But beneath the spices was something cloying and rank. Sconces lined the inner wall, each full of oil and flickering flames. Charms hung from the sconces, the nearest one twisting slowly this way and that in a phantom breeze, its beads of colored glass winking and flashing. A shelf, filled with an assortment of scrolls, curved with the wall. A spectrum of darkening browns and yellows told the varied ages of the scrolls. Overall, the room was inviting.

  As long as he didn’t look at the outer wall.

  “’Stan!”

  Menna waved him over. She stood with Dihya, Azulay, and Tamella near the inner wall and a couple of woven baskets. One basket was overflowing with vellum sheets, an ink-stained cloth draped over its side: the tools of the marab’s trade.

  “Good,” said Tamella, catching Amastan with her glance and drawing him in. “I thought for a moment I’d lost you.” She gave the others a wide, tooth-filled smile. “First, congratulate your cousin. Amastan successfully completed his trial.”

  Menna grinned and threw her arms around Amastan, squeezing him tight. “Thank G-d!”

  “You mean, all of us passed?” asked Dihya, surprised. “I thought you said one of us would fail.”

  Tamella spread her hands. “Someone usually does.”

  Azulay thumped Amastan on the back as soon as Menna let him go. “Good on you.”

  Amastan tried to smile, but he couldn’t find the excitement he knew he should be feeling. Now that he’d had a chance to shake out his stiff muscles and pick up a second wind, he couldn’t blame his exhaustion for this numbness. He’d been training for this day for so many years, ever since Tamella had appeared in his room one night and explained the family business.

  He’d been barely fourteen. His father had been pressing him for years to pick up glasswork like his father had, and his father before him. But Amastan had chosen to apprentice under the historian Barag instead. His father’s disappointment had hung heavy over the house and their relationship. Then Tamella had slid in through his window, silent as a shadow. She’d been watching Amastan for years. Every member of the extensive Basbowen family, however far-flung, learned from a young age how to defend themselves.

  Amastan hadn’t been exceptionally good at defense, but Tamella had been impressed by his precision. The rest of her decision, she’d later explained, was based on pure instinct. She’d told him she’d never been wrong. He’d trusted her.

  At the time, becoming an assassin had seemed both exciting and intangible. He’d wanted to learn everything. He knew all there was to know about how to fire glass, but how to fight, how to climb, how to hide, how to conceal, how to poison—he knew nothing. When he’d learned how to kill, he’d been fascinated. A person could die in so many ways. Life was surprisingly fragile.

  Amastan had understood that someday he’d have to put everything he’d learned into practice, but someday was so far away. Then Tamella had set their trials and someday was no longer a vague, distant point. That’s when Amastan had begun to doubt. And doubt had turned to worry. Could he do it? When the time came, could he take a life?

  Someday had become today. And now as Azulay thumped his back and Dihya squeezed his hand, Amastan had his answer: he couldn’t. Standing here in this room full of the dead was too much for him. Jaan terrified him. All he wanted was to return to his scrolls, safe and free of blood. Maybe he would end up failing after all.

  Tamella clapped her hands, drawing their attention back to her. “You might be wondering why I brought you to a crypt.”

  “I just thought you liked the ambiance, ma,” said Azulay.

  Tamella flicked a knife into her palm and pointed its tip at Azulay. “Don’t cheek me. Not tonight. I cannot stress the importance of this lesson enough. I’ve brought you here because this’ll be the closest you ever get to a jaani in our fair city. That is, unless you thoroughly fuck up. And if you do, not even G-d will help you.”

  The others exchanged a glance. Amastan kept his gaze fixed on Tamella, not willing to look beyond her. Not yet.

  “This is just as important as learning how to hold a knife or climb walls,” continued Tamella. “More so. Which is why I’m telling you now, so you can’t forget it. No matter how terrible our marks’ crimes were, no matter how much they deserved G-d’s embrace, no matter your own personal feelings, we must respect death. Honoring the mark’s jaani is just as important as planning and executing a contract.”

  Tamella stepped to the side and gestured at the wall behind her, the outer wall. The wall Amastan had been trying to ignore since he’d entered the crypt.

  Dark holes had been cut into the solid metal, continuous rows stacked four high. Tombs. Most held a body, tightly wrapped in gray cloth which had been stained with ink and dust. The bodies were laid feetfirst so that their cloth-covered heads were easily available for the marab. With their heads set at each tomb’s mouth, they looked like rows upon rows of inverted eyes.

  “Each week,” said Tamella, “the marab quiet the jaan of all these bodies. Each body will lie here for seven years until their jaani can be ushered across. Menna can explain the particulars, I’m sure. But what I want—need—to impress upon you is
how important the marab’s job is. If they miss a jaani, if they miss a single week, then the jaani will go wild. And I’m sure you’ve all heard stories about the jaan that hunt the sands.”

  Amastan swallowed, remembering his time on the sands only hours earlier in vivid detail. He didn’t need the reminder.

  “The marab are the reason why there’re jaan on the sands but not in Ghadid,” continued Tamella. “A person who dies on the sands, dies alone, with no one around to quiet their jaani. That jaani becomes lost and confused, adrift on the sands. All it wants is what it once had: a warm body to keep it safe. Any warm body will do, especially water-hungry travelers and those foolish enough to cross the sands without protection charms. But here, we have marab to ensure that never happens. And as assassins, we must do our part to make sure it never will.”

  Tamella held up a finger. “The number one rule in our family—aside from not getting caught and not spilling our secrets—is that we must make certain the body will be found before its jaani can run wild. We aren’t murderers.”

  “How long does it take to go wild?” asked Azulay.

  Tamella gestured to Menna. “Our resident apprentice marabi should know the answer to that.”

  Menna looked at first startled, then pleased. “Five to six hours,” said Menna. “It can vary, depending on the person’s age and temperament and the time of year, so the rule we follow is no more than three hours, to play it safe.”

  Dihya frowned. “That shouldn’t be hard.”

  “Exactly,” said Tamella. “It’s not. But care should be taken that the body is found. Most of our wealthier, older marks have someone to check in on them once a night. They’re not a problem. The others—it all comes down to timing and place. This is why a cousin has never shoved a mark off a platform and called it done. We are instruments of G-d and we must act that way.” She spread her hands. “Any questions?”

  “What if we mess up?” asked Azulay. “What if no one finds the body in time?”