job, I always have strange dreams.
Sometimes, they’re nightmares about an arcing blade and my baba’s unflinching gaze. Other times I’m a child, running and running and running, but no matter where I hide, or how fast I try to escape, my pursuer always catches me. The worst nights are the ones where my pursuer comes into the light, throws back her hood, and I see a pair of ice-cold brown eyes set in a dark, hardened face. A face of chiseled edges, spattered in red. My face. Except matured, set atop a tall form wreathed in severe black and holding a knife in each hand. In those dreams, she crouches down before me in a dark corner, and I stare back, barely recognizing her through my pleading sobs.
But nothing can stop her knife from plunging deep into my heart.
Tonight, however, I have a new dream. One that is the strangest of all.
I stand before a throne of polished beryl in a grand hall awash in a fiery red glow. Rubies hang suspended from the ceiling like sparkling shards of rain. Their reflections glitter in the glass-like surface of the floor. Stone lions flank the throne, guarding the steps up to the dais.
More than the dazzle around me, however, is the pull I feel toward that throne. Seated upon it, silhouetted in crimson, is the tall shape of an obsidian shadow. Like a man standing before the sun, its light stealing his features.
He sits with his legs wide, knees against the armrests. One hand hangs loosely off the side, reflected in the mirror floors. The other twirls a crown around a long index finger, an enormous ruby in its center flashing with each rotation. One wrong move, and the crown would go flying to the ground. His head is tilted slightly, his posture almost casual. As if he is so powerful he has no need to sit straight.
I cannot make out even the faintest trace of his face.
When he speaks, his voice has the thunderous force of a waterfall.
“Nadira al-Risya,” he says. And then—he chuckles. It rolls out from him like stones grinding, one upon one another. He flicks his crown, then catches it in his fist. “Will you not bow to your Neverseen King?”
I’m not sure what to feel, whether fear or thrill, whether dread or awe. But does it matter?
After all, it’s only a dream.
So I don’t bend. I don’t bow. I keep my legs firm, planted wide, as I level my gaze at the shadow and lift my chin.
He chuckles again. Twirls the crown on his finger—and lets it fly off. It crashes to the ground between us, the sound echoing off the ceiling, the archways along the wall. The dripping jewels shudder on their cords. The crown rolls and rattles until it comes to rest at my feet, its huge ruby sparkling up at me like an unblinking eye.
And then suddenly, the shadow is before me.
I flinch and my eyes widen, but I manage to hold my ground. My heart picks up its rhythm, and my hands itch for the weight of a blade. But I won’t betray the terror pooling in my stomach by reacting.
The shadow is warm. I feel it as he comes closer. His chuckle grates all the way down my spine. “They call you the Mourner, in your world.”
This time, I don’t flinch. But I’m braced like a tightly coiled spring. Now would be a good time to wake up.
He draws even nearer, so close that I can almost feel his breath on my face.
And then—a finger. A finger wreathed in darkness catches beneath my chin. A gasp slices between my teeth, and I jerk away from that touch. Yet even so, I lift my eyes to where his must be.
“Yes,” he says, and I’m not sure if he is addressing me or himself. “You will be perfect.”
Then my dream fades into dawn, its strange echoes and visions swept away by the foreboding knowledge of what awaits me tonight.
Death.
growl. It’s the only indulgence I will give my frustration. The rest of it I try to lock deep inside myself with full, expanding breaths through my nose. Either that, or die. And I’m not dying. Not on a stupid job like this. I’ve planned this out painstakingly, thinking through everything that could go wrong. I’ve considered every variable, managed every risk.
Except one.
Her name is Eshe bint-Kinid.
I cannot mitigate the risk associated with her. Nor can I plan for it. All I can do is expect it. Right now, hiding in darkness that smells of feed, excrement, and leather tack, I stare through the opening of the stable doors at the sliver of a milky moon hovering above the dome of what I know to be the ceiling of the mansion’s library. The floor plans I’ve been studying flash before my mind’s eye.
In these moments waiting for Eshe, I have a sudden, sharp urge. One that involves turning around, slipping through the door on the other side of the stables, and running. As far and fast as I can. Maybe this time, I could get away.
A hand clamps down on my shoulder.
Panic floods my senses. I whirl toward the shadows, my knife driving at my assailant. It plunges straight into a bale of hay. Right above a ducking form that wears a familiar grin.
“Just checking your reflexes, Nadira,” Eshe says, teeth shining white against the darkness of the stables. She hops upright as I pull my knife free from the hay and glare at her. “Nothing like a nice thrill on a fine night!”
I don’t like thrills. And I hate surprises.
I sag, my breath nearly whistling through my teeth as I suck it inward. Without a sound, I sheathe my knife. I flex my hand, as if that would stop it from trembling.
What was I thinking, even considering escape? I know Jabir, and though I might not know how, he has tracked down every escape mere hours—sometimes, mere minutes—after they were attempted. No matter how carefully crafted my attempts, they never got results. Never mind the impulsive ones. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he had somehow gotten ahold of magic to bind me to his side.
My only option, now and ever, is to be what Jabir raised me to be.
I’m sorry, Baba.
I tip my head up, enough that I can meet the jewel-like glitter of Eshe’s eyes beneath her hood. As much as I want to be angry, to rebuke her for being late, all I can do is smile weakly. I hold out my fist to her, and she grins in response, bumping it with her own.
“Are you ready for some priceless artifact stealing?” she whispers a little too loudly for my comfort, stretching and nearly giving me a heart attack when she goes to crack her knuckles. She catches herself at the last second, opting to yawn instead and arching her back like she’s a purring cat begging for scraps.
“Unfortunately, I won’t be stealing any priceless artifacts,” I say. “You’ll have to do that part on your own.”
“Right, right, because you are doing the important part of this mission.”
That’s the nice way to put it, I suppose. Makes it sound like it’s the more desirable of our jobs, when it will only add to my catalog of nightmares. I shake my head softly, then shoot Eshe a sidelong glance. “You remember the plan, right?”
“Plans, plans, plans,” she says.
That cavalier tone of hers is going to be the death of me.
“No stunts this time,” I say firmly, fixing my features into their sternest arrangement. “Follow the plan, and no one will know what happened until the morning.”
“But where’s the fun in that?” She flashes another grin. One that makes dread drop like lead into my stomach.
“Please follow the plan.”
“If something goes wrong, you know I’ll find a way out. I take pride in my quick thinking and improvisation.”
“I have nightmares about your improvisation,” I say dryly.
She tosses me a lazy smile, fist-bumps me again, and whispers, “We’ve got this.” Then she saunters out of the cover of the stables. Her robes swish silently around her, and from the folds of her cloak she pulls a length of rope. Then she vanishes into the shadows of the mansion. My smile vanishes with her.
I shake my head, watching her leave. If she wasn’t so good at her job, I’d refuse to work with her. Sometimes I think our friendship would be smoother if we didn’t work together. But if we didn’t, I’d never see her. Not with Jabir’s leash around my neck.
Besides, we can pull this job off tonight. I know we can.
My blood pressure should be the only casualty.
I pull the folds of my cloak tighter around myself, brush a hand swiftly over the knives buckled at the hip of my sirwal, the two holstered on my biceps; wriggle my ankle to feel the one in my boot, then the knife I have strapped to my side.
I can delay no longer. No matter how much I might wish to.
The moment my feet are in motion, my brain finds its focus like a hunter prowling the night. Except, sometimes I’m not sure if I am the hunter. The rush of wind against creaky shutters and polished pillars, the grit of sand in the air, and the faint scent of spices drifting from the nearby bazaar are a welcome distraction for my racing heart. I focus on my movements, on silence. On becoming one with shadow.
There’s a window on the first floor, near the shockingly huge washroom. No one will be there at this hour, and it is far away from the wing where the baby is sleeping—but reasonably close to the library, where I know my target is half-asleep at his desk.
Finding the window and slipping past the guards takes less than a minute. I glance over my shoulder, just once, before I take hold of the sill and hoist myself up.
It’s locked.
I anticipated this. With my exposed back begging for a knife, I slip my tools from my sleeve. It’s the work of a heartbeat to ease the hinges off the shutter. I’m sweating so much that I wonder in amusement if that alone might work to prevent any squeaks. But no, just a few drops of oil from my pouch and the shutters come off soundlessly.
I remove my slippers as I enter, exchanging them for a special pair before my feet hit the ground. They’re stitched leather, soft and worn, practically molded to my feet by now. They don’t make noise on any surface, and I keep them so clean that they would never leave a trace.
Carefully, I set the loose shutter back on the sill, and only the faintest crack of moonlight betrays that it isn’t completely closed. I’d set it back on its hinges if I didn’t need to get back out in hopefully less than a quarter of an hour.
I crouch in front of the windowsill, staying in the darkness, as I begin to count.
One. Two. Three.
It forces my erratic breathing to steady.
I don’t like creating plans that depend on precise timing, but alas, it couldn’t be helped. I needed to give Eshe enough time to do her job, while leaving as little time as possible between the completion of mine and our escape.
Every moment inside a target’s house, even one as grand as this one, is a risk. The longer we’re here, the more likely we are to be caught.
The washroom around me is laden with fresh laundry, which reeks of lye soap and too much cloying perfume. Large wooden tubs line one wall, empty of the steaming water they usually hold. I dodge through lines strung with imported silk, my tallness lending me no favors. I don my gloves as I go, flexing fingers inside the camel leather.
Four. Five. Six.
Suddenly, I’m confronted by a tiny pair of cloth shoes hanging in front of my face. It’s next to downy-soft swaddles and cleaned nappies.
I stop counting. I swallow a salty mouthful of bile.
Then I’m moving again, counting my lost second, and grinding my teeth as I softly pry open the door and slip into the servants’ hallways.
Now is not the time to think about what I’m about to do. Certainly even less of a time to feel, to mourn that a child will have no memory of his father because of me. All I have space for is the plan. Making sure it is executed flawlessly, making sure Eshe doesn’t get herself caught.
I certainly have no room for regret or wistful wonderings of how the twists and turns of my life could have landed me literally anywhere else in this entire world than here. No time to entertain the notion of stiffening my spine, spinning myself around, and attempting a harebrained escape.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
When I reach the kitchen, I find yet another reason to clench my fists and swallow hard. There are voices, but no hum of dishwashing or silver polishing. I move silently through shadows until I can peek around through the crack in the door.
A bearded man holds a cup of tea, grinning and chatting next to an unmade tray of refreshments. Biting back a curse, I slide away from the kitchen.
The steward hasn’t been up with his master’s tea. That’s not the issue though—I’d been hoping he hadn’t been up yet. Then I could have pulled out the draw-stringed pouch from my sleeve and sprinkled in enough poison to kill my target in an instant. My knife would never leave its sheath, and blood wouldn’t be spilled. The issue is that the steward hasn’t even made up the tray to take, and he looks in no hurry to do so.
I can’t wait around hoping he will. After all, in my planning for this job, I knew the steward greatly varied the time he brought up his master’s late-night tea, and I also knew it had something to do with the rosy-cheeked cook.
I knew this might happen. I knew I could find myself in this position.
Which is why I planned for it. It just wasn’t my preferred plan. Blood never is.
Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two.
I must be extra careful, because now I have confirmed another variable: the risk of when the steward will bring up his master’s tea. There are certainly some very, very inopportune moments he could choose to do so.
I bite my lip and taste copper.
Then I’m slinking through the darkness, dodging the light cast by flickering sconces and the rare shuffling of feet. No one except a sparse handful of servants should be awake; those remaining in case their sleepless master requires their service.
I wonder if the lord of this house has taken inspiration from the Neverseen King, who is said to rule our land during the night and vanish during the day like a phantom. Unseen. Unknown. I’m not fanciful enough to believe such legends. No, I know it’s all a ruse. Anything to instill healthy fear and mystery into a monarchy that is crumbling before our eyes. After all, I’ve learned that there are two advantages one may have in a fight: being strong and being perceived as strong. Sometimes the latter is even better than the first.
A mysterious sultan might have been more enthralling to previous generations, what with his supposed stealing of human brides every hundred years, but now people are starting to question things—as they should. Ever since our neighboring kingdoms started taxing our incense exports and undercutting supply prices for trade, our economy has been hamstrung. Fairy tales don’t feed hungry bellies.
Sometimes I wonder if we’ll have a revolution.
Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five.
I’m not sure what makes me suddenly pause. A tickling down my spine, or a sense of unease. Slowly, I twist my head, one hand reaching up to my hood, the other going to my dagger.
The hallway I stand in is empty, save me and the shadows.
So why do I feel like someone is watching me?
Licking my dry lips, I hurry onward. I take a servant staircase to the upper floors, losing a whole minute to the painstaking climb. My lips are cracked from too much licking when I finally reach the top floor.
No one should be on this floor. Except . . .
A dark figure struggles down the hallway, wind from the open window ruffling her hair and cloak. Rope hangs out the window, and I wince. Before I address my friend, I cross the distance to the window and, with one terrifying glance down to see if anyone had spotted the rope, I wind the length of it around my arm until there’s no sign of entry. It’s tightly woven jurbah rope, very thin and strong—I always keep some on my person—but it doesn’t matter how thin the rope is. It can still give us away. I hook the bundle over my shoulder.
Then I’m at Eshe’s side, glaring at her.
“I didn’t think this lock would give me so much grief,” she whispers, arching a brow.
“Anyone could have seen the rope,” I growl. “And then this would have been over before it’d even begun!”
She grins wickedly. “But no one did see it.”
“You don’t know that!”
“What are you even doing here? I don’t remember part of the plan involving you coming to check my work.”
“The plans changed because the steward can’t shut his mouth and stop yapping with the cook. I can’t move too quickly now. If he goes up while I’m—”
“Then you can just fling yourself out of the window and all will be fine.”
“That window is not an escape route, not with the streets lighting up that side of the mansion.”
“Pfft. You’d be fine.”
“It is too risky, and not just for my sake. If the steward discovers my completed job before you’ve gotten yourself away, the guards will be up here in an instant. And what if you’re inside the vault then, with the door unlocked from the outside? There’s no escape.”
She presses a hand to her heart, pausing her lock picking long enough to shoot me a wounded look. “You have no faith in me.”
“If you mean I have no faith in your ability to slip through solid walls and fly, then yes. How much time do you need me to delay?”
She rolls her eyes and shrugs. “No need to delay. Just get your job done. It’s just this last pin. It’s set, but the cylinder isn’t turning, so it just needs a little more fiddling . . .”
Eshe doesn’t understand logistics and planning and risk mitigation. But she does, however, understand me. Even while her deft fingers work the lock of the vault, she eyes me in the darkness. “You’re stalling.”
“I’m timing things carefully,” I reply stiffly.
“Stalling.”
“Being smart.”
“Stalling.”
“And if I am?” I demand. “He has a baby, Eshe.” The words are slightly choked. Hastily, I swallow back the emotion.
Eshe’s face grows unusually serious, her brow firming and jaw tensing. “No one said we were heroes, Nadira. But comfort yourself that it’s not personal, that you didn’t choose this target. Sands, Jabir probably doesn’t even know the name of the person who did. This lord runs the city guard and is a staunch supporter of the Neverseen King—of course he has enemies. And if it makes you feel better, only a scumbag could run the city guard and allow them to do . . . what they do.”
A memory flashes before me of the night Eshe and I met, of the one kill I don’t regret.
Her words aren’t comforting at all. At one point in my life, that excuse was the only thing that kept me sane. Now, however, I see it for what it truly is.
A lie.
The lock clicks beneath Eshe’s fingers. “Ah ha!” she says triumphantly, too loudly.
I wince as I hand off the rope, then whirl in a flurry of dark cloak back toward the stairs. “Remember the rendezvous point.”
There’s no delaying the inevitable any longer.
My fingers wrap around the knife, Separator.
