The Perfect Assassin

by K A Doore

  “It’s Yanniq.”

  Surprise flitted across her features like a spring cloud, there and gone in the same instant. Her mouth worked around a curse, but she never spit it out. Instead, she ordered, “Tell.”

  With a swallow, Amastan said, “I found him on a rooftop. His body was hidden near a glasshouse. I couldn’t tell exactly how long he’d been dead, but it’s been a few days at least. The fabric of his wrap wasn’t sun damaged, so it can’t have been more than a week. But there’s a dusting of sand across his body, so more than just a day or two. It looks like he lost a lot of blood, and I’d guess the cause of death—”

  “—is not for you to determine.” Tamella cut him off. She waved her hand dismissively. “Leave that to the healers.”

  “But we can’t bring him to the healers,” said Menna. “He’s dead.”

  “Any healer worth their water can tell you how he died,” said Tamella. “You just have to find one who won’t ask why you want to know.”

  “Regardless of how he died,” continued Amastan, “we need to let the other drum chiefs know.”

  “Is that why you came to me?” Tamella crossed her arms. “You think I have some sort of secret line to the drum chiefs?”

  Amastan shrugged. “We couldn’t go to the watchmen.”

  “Well,” said Tamella. “You’re right. Finding a dead drum chief would be suspicious, no matter who found him. And being an assassin only complicates things. We can’t give them any reason to suspect us.” She closed her eyes, sighed, then opened them again. “I guess I am the right person for this.”

  Amastan shifted uncomfortably, one final question remaining. “The person who killed him … that wouldn’t have been a cousin, right?”

  “Did nothing I told you yesterday get through?” snapped Tamella. “No. That wasn’t the work of our family. No assassin would disrespect the dead like that. And if I’m wrong, I will personally write the contract on them. No—this isn’t any of our business. Let’s leave it where it belongs: in the drum chiefs’ hands.”

  5

  A steady drumbeat pulled Amastan out of deep sleep. At first, he confused it with the sound of his own pulse in his ears, but the mismatch soon became obvious. He opened his eyes to a room full of morning sun that was warm but not yet hot. Then the beat took on a sense of urgency and he rolled out of bed.

  He finished winding his wrap and knotting his tagel as he hurried for the stairs. He nearly collided with his uncle at the top, who was doing his own version of getting dressed, and together they joined the growing group in the living area below.

  “Amastan, Uncle—there you are,” said Thiyya. “We’re just about to go out. The call has been beating for the last ten minutes.” Thiyya peered at Amastan. “G-d, Brother. You look like you’ve been listening to jaan all night.”

  Amastan ignored her jab. “Do you know why there’s a calling?”

  Guraya bounced on her toes. “Maybe to announce a celebration?”

  One of Amastan’s aunts laughed and another shook her head. Their husbands were already at the door, along with his father.

  “It’s the end of season, ’Raya,” said Thiyya gently. “There’s not enough water for a celebration.”

  The drumbeat slowed to a single, heavy beat on each second. An aunt cried, “We’re going to be late!” and hurried for the door. The rest of the family followed. Amastan came last, a knot of worry in his stomach.

  Outside, the drift of the crowd swept them along across the platform and over a bridge to the center of the Seraf neighborhood. The crowd grew denser until they slowed and stopped altogether, just on the edge of the platform’s center. Amastan rocked onto the tips of his sandals to see better. He could just make out a figure standing on the central dais, beating a large drum.

  Thiyya squeezed through the cracks in the crowd, there and gone in the heartbeat it took for someone to shift their weight. Amastan followed, leaving the rest of his family behind. As they drew closer to the dais, he could make out more of what was up there. The figure was a slave, his head shorn clean, his features tagel-less, and his otherwise dull wrap embroidered with blue geometric designs that marked which household he belonged to.

  He pounded a large drum with twin sticks. Not just any drum, though. Thick red needlework circled its top and bottom, the mark of the drum chief’s office. Drum Chief Hennu, to be exact, who stood wearing a wrap as blue as the sky only a few feet away. A handful of slaves and other, free members of her household accompanied her. At her side stood a watchman, who surveyed the crowd with a hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Thiyya stopped within arm’s reach of the dais, head tilted back to take in its occupants. Amastan stood at her elbow. This close, the drumbeat thrummed through his bones, rattling his thoughts. Then, with a quick flourish, the slave stopped drumming.

  The ensuing silence was thunderous. Amastan could hear the breeze whispering over the rooftops. Someone coughed. A baby fussed. Someone else sneezed. A sandal scuffed stone.

  Drum Chief Hennu raised her hand. Gold dangled from her wrists and ears and cascaded down her throat, catching and glaring in the harsh noon light, some of it for show and some of it for station. Rings glittered on her fingers; she wore almost as many as Tamella. She surveyed the crowd. Then she took the drum from her slave and raised it overhead with both hands so that all could see and affirm her right to speak. She set it down between her feet.

  “Citizens!” she called, her voice smoky rough. “Greetings and G-d bless. You have answered my call; now stay and listen. We gather here today under this harsh sun to pay our respects to Drum Chief Yanniq, recently deceased. I ask for a moment of prayer in his name, that G-d may ease his journey and rest his jaani.”

  A murmur pulsed through the crowd, but it was quickly silenced when Hennu clasped her hands to her chest and bowed her head. Together, the crowd rumbled a breathy prayer. Amastan touched his charm, a shiver of panic in his own words. He knew Tamella must have told the drum chiefs, but he hadn’t expected them to make Yanniq’s death public so soon.

  When the crowd faded back into silence, Hennu lifted her head and continued. “Unfortunately, I haven’t called you today just to mourn the deceased. I’ve called you because Drum Chief Yanniq was murdered.”

  The crowd grumbled with confusion and alarm. Amastan resisted the urge to glance around, instead keeping his gaze trained on Hennu as she rode out the response.

  When the grumbles had gone on long enough, Hennu lifted her hand and quiet fell heavy as a rock. “Now more than ever we must come together as a neighborhood, as a city, and as a people. I stand here before you because we’re still searching for the one responsible for Yanniq’s death. We will, of course, find them. No sin goes unpunished under G-d’s watchful eye. But we’ll need your help and assistance. Anyone with information about the murder will come forward. Anyone we suspect might have information about the murder who doesn’t come forward will be detained. I promise you, we won’t rest until the guilty one has been found, tried, and punished.” Her eyes narrowed. “Our city does not tolerate murderers.”

  The drum chief swept her hand across the crowd, letting it come to a stop with her fingers pointed toward the watchmen’s office. “The watchmen will make their rounds and ask questions as they see fit. Please give them your full compliance. Do not be alarmed. If you’re innocent, you have nothing to fear. That is all. I thank you for your attention.”

  Drum Chief Hennu placed her fist over her heart and the slave took up the drum. He beat out a slower, staccato rhythm to release the calling. The crowd stirred to life and began to disperse. Thiyya headed back toward the bridges, but Amastan lingered. The crowd jostled him as it moved past. The Drum Chief stood as still as a statue on the dais, watching the crowd like a bird of prey.

  To avoid standing out, Amastan started walking. But he didn’t head home. Instead, he turned down a side street which dumped him onto a bridge and brought him to the next platform. Two platforms farther and he stood outside
a faded red door, his stomach knotted with fresh worry.

  “You’re early,” said Barag when Amastan stepped inside.

  Amastan closed the door gently behind him. “You said to arrive early. I came from the calling. Didn’t you go?”

  Barag waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t have time for that. If it was really important, they’d send someone. Come here.” As Amastan approached, Barag gently patted the pile of scrolls in front of him. “These are some of the source materials I’ve been able to gather or put together myself over the years. Take a look.”

  Amastan picked up a scroll at random. He unrolled it, scanned its contents, and frowned. “This is nonsense.”

  Barag peered at him over his glasses. “Not just any nonsense.”

  Amastan reread the first few words in a long list, but they were no words he knew. He scanned the rest of the scroll and quickly noticed a pattern. “They’re names.” He looked up. “Is this code?”

  The corners of Barag’s eyes crinkled with a smile. “Yes.”

  Amastan puzzled over the list for another moment, then held out his open palm. Barag dropped a piece of thin charcoal into it. Amastan made a few marks, then said, “Basbowen—they all share that name. Are they family?”

  Barag leaned back and took off his glasses. “How did you figure that out?”

  “There’re a few other names repeated on here and knowing what letters are most common in names along with which names themselves are most common…” Amastan trailed off with a shrug. “It’s simple substitution.”

  “You think you can make a better code?” asked Barag.

  Amastan drummed his fingers on the table. “With a little time, yes.”

  “Good.” Barag nodded. “Then that will be your second task. Your first task is to transcribe these scrolls out of code. It’ll be easier to put together a history when you can read the texts. I should warn you, not all the codes are the same, nor as straightforward as that one. The family has always kept its records in code, but they’re disjointed and chaotic, with whole decades simply missing.” Barag gestured at the scroll. “What you’re holding is one of the very first records: a list of the original members of Ghadid’s militia.”

  “Militia?” Amastan set the piece of charcoal down. “When did we have a militia? When did we need a militia?”

  “The sands were much higher once,” said Barag. “Our city has not always been so safe. In those days, all it took was a ladder or a really tall camel to reach a platform. We were constantly threatened by raiders and bandits.”

  Amastan tried to picture the sands so close that a ladder could reach them, but it was just too absurd. He shook his head. “How?”

  “Sands shift,” answered Barag.

  “But hundreds of feet worth of sand?”

  “Yes. Even from year to year, you can mark the movement of the sands as they slip up and down the pylons. Imagine what could happen over the course of several centuries. Someday, the sands will return and we won’t be so invincible. We’ll need the militia again when that happens. Back in those days, Ghadid was regularly beset by bandits, guul, and even the other cities in the Crescent.” He smoothed out another scroll with his palm. “So the drum chiefs called for a militia.”

  “But what does that have to do with the family?”

  “It was the beginning.” Barag opened his hand, palm up. “The family’s method has changed over the centuries, but they’ve always protected Ghadid.” His hand hovered over the pile of scrolls. “Most of these I’ve translated once already, but there are a few I only deciphered enough to figure out what they contained. You’ll need to match the original to my translation and then check for any errors. If you can come up with a better code to translate the whole of them back into, that would be wonderful. Otherwise, I just need a lot of help bringing all these pieces together into a semi-recognizable whole. So”—he held out his open hand—“what do you think? Does it sound like something you could do?”

  “Absolutely. The translations shouldn’t be too difficult, unless you’re hiding something from me, and you’ve taught me more than enough to begin piecing together a history. But…” Amastan paused, chewed his lip. “Why me? I know I’m your apprentice, but this seems more like a project for, well, family. What about your daughter?”

  “Thana?” Barag chuckled humorlessly. “She’ll follow in her mother’s steps someday. She won’t have time to preserve our history.” He shook his head. “No—her mother is the Serpent of Ghadid. Even without contracts, she has a lot to live up to. It’s best if I teach another cousin instead.”

  Amastan looked at the pile of scrolls and thought about all the work they represented. His fingers itched for a pen to get started. He’d once thought he knew about the family, but now there were clearly many pieces he didn’t know the first thing about. For one, he hadn’t known that the family business had started as a militia. What else had Tamella glossed over?

  “How did we go from a militia to, well, this?” asked Amastan. “I’m sure I’ll find it in there,” he gestured at the scrolls, “but it would help to have some kind of context.”

  “It was a very special kind of militia,” said Barag. He patted the table. “Come—sit. You’re right—you need a framework to start.”

  Amastan dragged over his chair, all but thrumming with excitement. He folded his hands in his lap to stop himself from drumming his fingers on the table.

  “From the very beginning,” said Barag, “the militia was never intended to fight like a traditional army. Out on the sands, the iluk bandits had the advantage. But in Ghadid, the iluk could be overwhelmed by fighters who knew the city better than them. The militia members learned to work in small teams and they taught themselves how to fight with whatever was at hand. They learned how to hide in plain sight and they learned how to use poisons. Sound familiar?”

  When Amastan nodded, Barag continued. “Over the centuries, as the sands shifted and Ghadid rose higher, the militia lost its purpose. When the raids stopped altogether, the militia was forgotten. But one family continued the tradition of training each of their generations. Unfortunately, their trainees weren’t satisfied in merely keeping up a tradition; they wanted to use their hard-earned skills. It became known that if you whispered a word in the right ear, your problem could be solved.”

  “That’s when we became assassins,” said Amastan.

  Barag shook his head. “Not quite. More like thugs for hire. Then, of course, the worst happened—the drum chiefs started using the family against other citizens, claiming it was for their own good. But a thief here and an adulterer there became a merchant who’d spoken out or a charm maker who’d slighted a drum chief.”

  “Why did the family go along with that? Wouldn’t they have noticed?” asked Amastan.

  “Oh, they did. And some resisted. But this was long before there were any rules in place. And, remember, each cousin had been trained to kill—and that’s what they wanted to do. If you teach a man how to make a fire, you can’t be surprised when he lights tinder.” Barag picked up his long-forgotten cup of tea, swirled it, took a sip, and made a face. He set it back down. “When one drum chief tried to use the family to kill the other drum chiefs, the family came together for the first time and refused. They drove out the traitor, then met with the remaining drum chiefs to agree on some rules.”

  Barag held up a hand and began ticking off fingers. “First, a contract must be drawn up, both to establish a record of the request and to force hotheaded individuals to calm down. Second, there must be payment for each contract, enough to be prohibitive, but not impossible. Third, a crime must have been committed against G-d. And fourth, it should be better for the people and the city if the accused doesn’t have a public trial.”

  “But we don’t have anything to do with the drum chiefs now,” said Amastan.

  “We distanced ourselves,” said Barag. “After the near-coup, the family decided that they would serve all of Ghadid and not just the drum chiefs. They f
eared that the drum chiefs would either make them into executioners or decide they were too much of a threat. It was in their best interest to fade out of memory. The family’s business became a rumor. It was still known that a whisper in the right ear could bring justice when nothing else would, but they were no longer thugs for hire. They were assassins. Common knowledge became rumor became myth.”

  “… Until?” prompted Amastan.

  The corners of Barag’s eyes crinkled with a wide smile. “Until my wife.”

  The door slammed open, startling them both. Three watchmen poured into the room and fanned out. Barag jumped to his feet, his hand going to an empty waist. Amastan stood more slowly, careful not to reach for any of his knives.

  The head watchman, his status designated by the blue rope around his waist and a bright gold sash, announced, “Tamella of the Basbowen family. Is she in?”

  “No—” began Barag.

  “Yes.”

  All heads turned toward the stairs, where Tamella stood, smoothing out her wrap. She flashed a smile that was all teeth, cold and predatory. “How can I help you, sai?”

  “You’ve been summoned by the drum chiefs. We’re here to escort you to their Circle.”

  Tamella didn’t even blink. She gestured to the door. “Well then, sai, lead the way.”

  But the watchman didn’t budge. “I was also instructed to ask if anyone else saw the body.”

  Amastan stiffened, but Tamella only shrugged. “Just me.”

  The head watchman nodded and one of the others opened the door for Tamella. She paused on the threshold, though, and said, almost offhand, “I’ll be back.”

  6

  “She’ll be okay,” said Barag. But Amastan couldn’t tell if he was reassuring Amastan or himself.

  Amastan watched the door, as if Tamella might return at any moment and claim it was all a misunderstanding. But he knew better. Her relationship with the drum chiefs had been on shifting sands ever since she’d outed herself to save the city.