approaching the end of the corridor, where the ornate door of Samir’s cabin taunted her.
Perhaps she should go after the snake’s head first, after all?
No. She’d made her decision. Second-guessing and indecision suggested failure in either the planning or the execution of any scheme. Now… which door?
Leaning to the left, she listened at the wood. The very faint sounds of someone sleeping within. Could be Ghassan… could be Ursa. Who knew? Crossing the corridor, she leaned toward that door. Again, the faint sounds of deep, relaxed breathing. It was a guess, then. One door held Ghassan and one Ursa. They would both have to die anyway if she were going to stand a chance of usurping command of the ship. She was sure enough of her own talents and persuasiveness that she didn’t doubt for a moment she would sway the crew to her side, but not while any of these three lived to defy her.
Shrugging, she silently ran through a childhood rhyme to make her decision, the gleaming point of her sharp knife wavering back and forth with each line, pointing at one door and then the other.
The closing stanza of the rhyme escaped her lips and Asima looked down at the knife, then up to the door on her left and shrugged nonchalantly. Now for the first real test of her abilities. Leaning in close, she carefully grasped the handle and began, very slowly, to turn. There was the faintest squeak and she lowered the speed of turn more, moving the handle through a fraction of a degree at a time, all the while listening for any change in the sleep pattern within. It came as something of a relief when the door finally gave, just an inch. She’d half expected them to be locked and, while she was more than capable of overcoming that kind of difficulty after so many years’ practice in the harem of Akkad, it represented an added degree of danger.
Slowly, the door cracked open. Once more there was a faint creak to it. Had she opened it at normal speed, the noise would have been loud enough to startle most sleepers awake, but Asima was nothing if not careful.
The door finally wide enough to allow access, she slipped inside. Briefly she considered closing it, but then, if she were caught out and there was a noise, a closed door would hardly protect her. Better to leave the exit clear for her to move on speedily.
Silently, she padded into the dark room, a drape hanging over the window and obscuring all but the faintest glow. As her eyes adjusted to the stygian gloom, she picked out various furnishings and, finally, the bed. For a moment she was a little disappointed to realise from the bulk of the figure in the bed that this was Ursa’s room and not Ghassan’s. Still, she told herself once more, they all had to go and this could be considered just an extra training run.
Slowly, she inched across to the bed. The great, bald man lay there, barely covered by a single sheet and naked barring a set of under-britches. He slept on his back, eyes tight and mouth purring gently in a manner so quiet and calm and even ladylike that it brought a smile to Asima’s face; that great tattooed head uttering such a tiny, peaceful noise. Very easy positioning, of course. He would be a lot more peaceful in a minute.
Taking a deep breath, she raised herself up over the slumbering figure. Silent: that was the thing. Silence first. With a smile, she placed her hand ready over his mouth, not touching, but ready, should he get the chance to struggle.
The knife went in easily and slid across the neck to the ear opposite. She shook her head in disbelief at how easy it really was. Surely, they should have had more foresight than to give her a sharp knife to eat with. If she’d been their captor, they’d have been lucky to get a spoon.
Ursa awoke in understandable distress, his eyes wide as the life sprayed from his neck. He tried to shout something but it merely came out from his throat as bloody bubbles as he thrashed. Damn it. He was going to make too much noise with all this waving around.
Sighing, Asima drew the knife back, her hand going to his chest to try and hold him down. As he panicked, dying, she carefully drove her knife into his temple, delivering a paralysing, killing blow. The big body, a pile of sweating blubber, slick with sweat and crimson gore, shuddered and shook for a moment and then fell still, the man’s glassy eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling.
Asima nodded to herself. One down and two to go. And she’d learned a valuable lesson: silence from the mouth was only part of the job. She had to make sure the thrashing around was kept to a minimum. Ghassan would be a better job. Once more, she carefully cleaned the blade on the drape over the window. It wasn’t a fussy thing, for the sake of cleanliness, so much as the need to make sure she kept a solid grip on the weapon with no slippery blood beneath her fingers.
Straightening and squaring her shoulders, she crossed the room once more and peered through the door. Still no sign of movement or noise outside. Quietly, she pulled the door to behind her, closing it with the faintest of clicks. A step or two and she was across to the other door.
Once again she repeated her procedure, turning the handle so slowly that the inevitable creaks and squeaks were almost dulled to inaudible levels; the door refused to budge. Shaking her head irritably, Asima retrieved a pin from her luscious, dark hair and set it into the lock. Her tongue protruding as she worked, she eased the pin left and right, finding the teeth of the mechanism and manoeuvring them into position. The harem had been a great teacher, for sure.
There was a slight click, and Asima stood back, holding her breath. The sound of breathing within continued without a change in pitch. Good.
The handle began to twist under her grasp and slowly, ever so slowly, she turned it and pushed. The wooden portal gave way quietly, inching open and revealing the dark cabin beyond. Drapes covered this window too, casting a deep darkness over most of the room. As her vision adjusted, she realised that the contents of this cabin almost exactly mirrored those of Ursa’s opposite. The faintest gleam of silvery starlight shone from the window, where the drapes had caught on the frame and left a narrow triangle of clear glass. The beam fell across the bed and its occupant and Asima heaved a sigh of relief. Despite everything, she had half expected Ghassan to be standing behind the door, prepared for her, or Samir sitting in the chair, waiting. But no… that beam of light illuminated the tall figure beneath the sheet and those curly, ebony locks were unmistakably Ghassan’s.
Silently, she crept across the room, approaching the bed. Different method needed here. Ghassan was asleep on his side, his back to her. Given how dangerous he could be, she would have to make sure he was out of commission as soon as possible. A killing blow first, and then, as he woke, his life already ebbing, she would then have to make sure he stayed silent. She couldn’t get to his throat without turning him over anyway, and that mass of curly hair made any blow to the temple uncertain. She might miss and merely crack his skull. Then he’d have the best of her.
Taking a deep breath, she looked up and down the sleeping figure of her childhood love before shrugging, bending and thrusting the knife to the hilt in his back. The blade rasped as it slid between ribs, making her shudder as the reverberation ran up her arm. As she dealt the blow, her other hand went straight around to the mouth, clamping over it to keep her victim quiet.
Ghassan’s eyes opened wide, the shock of the sudden, incredibly forceful wound filling him. Asima yanked the knife back out, blood spattering both her and the floor as she did so, and raised her blood-soaked finger to her lips in a silencing motion.
“Shhhh.”
As her childhood friend’s eyes blinked and his face went white, she turned him gently onto his back, her hand still over his mouth, and leaned forward, placing the tip of the blade on his throat beneath his ear, ready to finish the job.
And that’s when it all went wrong. He should have been too panicked and weak; paralysed. He certainly shouldn’t have the strength or presence of mind for this. She clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut against the intense pain as Ghassan bit down hard on the hand over his mouth, his incisors meeting in the heel of her hand. She reeled, a chunk of flesh an inch across missing from her palm as Ghassan spat it out, his eyes filling with fury.
This wasn’t possible. He should be dying. He was dying, but refusing to lie down and take it. He still hadn’t cried out, though, and, despite the agony in her hand, neither had she, so there was still a chance. Gritting her teeth and ignoring the throbbing hand by her side, she reached in with the knife once again to go for the throat.
But Ghassan was already struggling to rise and, as she leaned forward, his arm came up like lightning, shaped into something resembling a claw, and delivered a sharp, precise blow to her neck, just below the jaw.
Asima was already unconscious when she hit the floor, the knife skittering away from her grasp. Ghassan stared and tried to rise from the bed. The agony in his chest and back was unbelievable and threatened to drain the
