Drops rolled down the length of her spine. Ashallah saw tiny bumps of flesh quiver in their wake. She shivers, she realized. If only I could be the one to warm her. That would be a welcome assignment.
The rest of the concubine’s body glistened with a thin layer of sweat. Her forearms. The meat of her legs sticking out between the cuts of her skirt. Her breasts.
Ashallah blinked, regaining her focus. Her lips parted as if to whisper the words she wanted to say.
I am the eclipse to the sun of my enemies. I am strong. I am midnight.
Behind the concubine, sprawled across her bed, stirred a customer. For Ashallah, that alone was enough to spoil the sight of young, tight female flesh.
The man threw off the covers and grunted as he sat up. The coarse, black hairs on his chest rose and then fell as he stretched. Like the other men, Ashallah had seen in the brothel; this one was the brutish sort. Older, unbathed, crass. His looks did not betray his demeanor, as he had turned lecherous and rough once the concubine had shown him to the room. The man did not even bother to close the door before he ripped the dress from the concubine and took her, thereby allowing other customers to peek in and watch.
The concubine shivered. Not from fright, Ashallah knew. From disgust. The woman wrapped a towel around her shoulders to cover herself as she turned to perform her tasks once more.
The brute yawned. He looked to the concubine, his conquest. He scratched his groin.
“In a bit,” he murmured.
He lied back down. Within moments, his chest heaved as his snores echoed through the room.
The concubine’s lip curled into a smile. She turned to her closet, where she threw off her towel and skirt, allowing Ashallah a glimpse of her slender figure before putting on a robe of red silk and gold thread. Ashallah, her lust peaked, stared at the graceful figure as her robe swayed back and forth, silently brushing the marble tiles as the concubine left the room.
From behind the lattice, Ashallah continued to watch the brute on the bed. She had never seen a whale in person, but she had heard of them. The tales of their size, their girth, were well known. Portly creatures Ashallah knew. She imagined that had one washed up on a Dylian shore, dried out and sprouted thick, black hair, that such a beast would be similar to the one before her.
His appearance is of no consequence, she reminded herself. Now he will meet his fate. To remain in darkness. Eternal midnight.
Ashallah extended her foot to the balustrade. The cool stone greeted her sand-covered sole, then the other. Ashallah released the lattice as she knelt on the railing. She leaped into the room, not even bothering to touch the balcony. An unnecessary move, certainly. However, Ashallah had been in waiting for so long that she felt the urge to stretch and jump, if for no other reason than to exercise.
A few long strides took Ashallah to the side of the bed. The transparent silk drapes, perhaps sensing what was to come, parted with the incoming breeze, relenting their cover to become gliding specters of the night.
The dagger in her hand felt light. She had opted for a small, seldom-used piece from her arsenal, one of the few she had procured from the armory of Yasem. Few smiths there knew how to craft proper steel, but her dagger was the exception, being one of the last crafted by the master smith Lazat before his death. With the thin edge and curves of a khukuri blade on both sides, it lacked the heavy, dull edge on its top side. That meant it would fare poorly in blade-to-blade combat. For close engagements though, the weapon served well. The tip could find its way through the link of any chainmail, no matter how finely constructed. Upon breaking the skin, the slim edges guaranteed the flesh and organs would part easily, delivering death to the recipient in quick form.
All this Ashallah contemplated as she stared down at the brute, a man who seemed to lack any capacity for awareness. She twirled the dagger in her hand, relishing the amount of time she had, feeling almost as a young girl does when picking desert wildflowers.
Then, without provocation, the man woke.
He found Ashallah standing over him. Whether he was in shock, or still drowsy, was uncertain. Perhaps he thought her another concubine, sent to the room for his pleasure. No matter the reason for his hesitancy, he spent a moment in quiet stillness, not bother to move or make a sound.
In the moment that followed, his lips parted. To question? To yell? To scream? It made no difference. All his mouth did was open. He emitted no sound. For the time to react, to do anything to try to save himself, had passed.
He had waited, Ashallah told herself. He had waited too long, she contemplated as she wiped her dagger on the sheets. Time will elapse slowly for him, as searing pain spreads from the slash on his neck to the remainder of his body. Seconds will crawl forward as he drowns on his own blood. The minute it takes him to die will be his eternity. By the time death comes he will gladly embrace his midnight.
Ashallah fixated on the growing sea of red that consumed the surrounding white silk sheets. It spread and grew. Dark, unforgiving red.
The soft breeze of a dying night parted the drapes. That was enough. Ashallah slipped through them with ease. Her feet tread over the clay tiles with not so much as a whisper of a sound as she glided past table and chair to the hallway.
The always familiar snoring of the household beckoned Ashallah forward. She moved past the room of her mother, her nightly chorus reverberating through the walls. At times, her snoring was so loud it gave the neighbors cause to complain. Not tonight. Tonight was only a mild case, one that would have woken Ashallah and her sister in their younger years, before they had become accustomed to it.
Ashallah moved on to her room next door. She turned the handle and pushed open the door, listening carefully to the hinges. As she suspected, they did not creak, for she had just oiled them before she had left. She moved inside, noting that nothing had changed since she had departed, save the one who was asleep in her bed. That was no surprise to Ashallah, for she knew the scent of desert jasmine in her hair and the fragrance of cumin and cinnamon from the grooves of her nails.
Ashallah moved to the other side of the bed to take a seat next to her sister. She stroked her ebony hair back until she stirred.
“You’re back,” Orzala said pointedly.
“You look like you’ve stayed up too late,” Ashallah said as she continued to stroke Orzala’s hair, envious of the sheen she had admired all her life.
“You said you would only be gone two or three days. It’s been seven.”
“I know.”
“Ommah became worried.”
“Again?”
“I tried to comfort her. But then I began to worry.”
“You two know well by now that my trips can go long. This has happened before. You needn’t be concerned,” Ashallah said, knowing that the last sentence she spoke was a lie.
Although she was trying to calm her sister’s fears, Ashallah felt a tinge of anger well. Her last mission should have been swift and decisive, one that a novice should have finished in two days – if given the proper details. Therein lied the problem. Her missions as of late were planned in haste, without much in the way of useful information. Descriptions of her enemies’ routines, their travel plans, and their residences – all necessary to understand and corner her targets – were scant. During one of her last operation, she even had to send one of her protégés into a brothel in the guise of a concubine, a practice she abhorred, for her commander had failed to provide an accurate report of their target.
“Are you?”
Ashallah gazed at her sister. “Am I what?”
“Concerned. You look worried.”
“No, I’m just tired.”
Orzala reclined back onto the bed, her hand wrapping around Ashallah’s. “I hope your next mission won’t be so long.”
“Me too,” Ashallah added as she laid next to her sister, stroking her hair with her other hand.
Ashallah lied next Orzala until she had fallen asleep. By then, dawn was creeping through the slits of her window shutters, the light a series of small shapes that grew bolder with each passing minute. Ommah will awaken soon, Ashallah told herself. For the time of prayer is soon at hand. Best to leave now.
Like desert squirrels on terebinth trees, Ashallah’s feet danced over the roofs and sky courtyards of the city. The day was not yet strong, but the streets below teemed with all manners of stimuli. The scent of fresh pita and naan wafted on the breezes of the morning, along with the aroma of pressed lotus flowers and oasis roses from the local perfume shops. Shouts and cries, beckoning the earliest of risers, echoed from the narrow corridors. The voices were those of men, brusque and rough. Ashallah would have sneered had she stopped long enough to consider them. Let them have the day, she told herself. The night is ours.
Even more intoxicating than the scents and sounds were all the sights Ashallah found. Shawls, robes and scarfs of dyed wool, animal hides, and even cotton swarmed through the narrow alleyways beneath. Many were bland tones of brown or gray, but now and then Ashallah caught a glimpse of green, blue or violet weaving through the crowd. Lining the herds that gathered were even more hues and shades, from stalls carrying every good and ware imaginable. Grains, ranging from gold to brown to crimson, caught the light of the early sun, as did the open baskets of spices, with their dark ebony of crushed pepper to the startling white of Pithiac sea salt. Then there were fruits and vegetables from as far as the Qtur Islands in the East to the Great Continent in the West, sporting every color known to the lands of the Grand Sultan.
A lesser warrior would have found such sights so distracting as to lose her footing to trip or fall. But not Ashallah. The heights were her best-known companions, seeming to cradle her feet with ease. No ledge nor step held ill will toward her. No brick nor tile gave under her weight. Most importantly, Ashallah met no one. The rooftops and sky courtyards she traversed were empty, by no coincidence or mistake. Ashallah chose this route for this purpose, knowing the inhabitants were late risers. She anticipated their absence, wanting the tranquility of solitude; the peace of being alone, for this was her time of meditation, her heaven.
Ashallah’s sprints and jumps slowed when the white linen sheets came into view. She hopped and skipped over alleys and walkways. By the time she slipped between the waving cloths, the sounds of the city of Yasem were but whispers. No vendors, no peddlers, and no beggars there were. For even men and women of the coin respected the preparation site of the dead.195Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlJo1ZQ2HGa
