The Perfect Assassin

by K A Doore

  “Oh, somebody offed him, but I wouldn’t call that unfortunate.”

  The slave coughed into his hand. “I wouldn’t be so free with your words, sa. If Basil hears you, she’ll have your tongue.”

  “She wouldn’t dare,” said Megar breezily. “No one else knows how to get the pumps working when those gears freeze up. And what good is a drum chief without water?”

  “Do you know who killed him?” pressed Amastan. “I mean, what if they have something against the whole household?”

  Megar’s friend spoke, his voice almost as cold as his eyes. “No one knows, but the other drum chiefs have sworn to find out.”

  Sworn to push it off on us, you mean, thought Amastan. Out loud, he said, “Everyone has enemies, though. Surely you know who those were.”

  Megar lifted the bottom of his tagel and picked his teeth with a fingernail, blackened by dirt and oil. “Bet it was Basil. She probably caught him having an affair.”

  “Eww,” said another servant, who’d been leaning into their conversation. “I don’t want to think about that old wrinkled raisin like that.”

  Megar batted at him. “Then don’t!” He turned back to Amastan with an apologetic shrug. “The man’s dead. May his jaani rest quiet and whatever. Honestly—and don’t tell Basil—I didn’t much care for the old mule.”

  “Why?” asked Amastan.

  Megar pressed his mug to his lips, but didn’t swallow. “He was just … weak. His wives were always talking about how the rest of the drum chiefs walk all over him. He wasn’t much of a man. And, I don’t know, maybe he was just too old.” He set the mug down without taking a drink. “Now is as good a time as any for the household to move on.”

  “Megar,” said the man in the silver tagel with a note of warning.

  “What?” Megar leaned back, spreading his hands. “Is it a crime to speak the truth now? You can’t deny that whoever killed him did us all a favor.” He raised his mug into the air, his arm unsteady under its weight. “Long live Basil ma Yanniq!”

  The table of servants and slaves rumbled in agreement. Megar smiled with smug satisfaction, but his friend shifted uncomfortably.

  “You worry too much, Yufit,” said Megar, standing. He swayed and splayed a hand on the table to keep from falling. “Here, I’ll stop ruining your night and go ruin someone else’s.” His gaze swept the room before fixing on Amastan. “You remember my offer, Asaf. Come round if you want a job. And don’t listen to a word Yufit says about me—it’s all lies.”

  “Sa,” said Amastan, not trusting himself with any other words.

  But Megar was already staggering away, heading for the two whores.

  “G-d, he didn’t even pay for his share of the drinks,” said Yufit with an aggrieved sigh. “Again. Thinks that just ’cause he’s a gear worker, he’s a gift from G-d. But with his talk, he’s only going to get himself into trouble. Word of advice: stay away from him.” He settled his elbows on the table. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Asaf.”

  “Yufit. This isn’t your neighborhood.” It wasn’t a question.

  “No,” admitted Amastan. “But my cousin tipped me off about the opening. She knows Idir.” It was true, in its own way. Tamella did know Idir. She’d even helped Amastan select the right poison for the server.

  “Is this what you usually do?” asked Yufit.

  “No, I just need the extra baats. I’m a scribe—well, historian. What about you?”

  Yufit peeked into Megar’s abandoned mug, then pushed it away with a sigh of disgust. “I handle the master’s correspondence.”

  The servant who’d interrupted earlier spoke up. “Don’t believe him.” He smirked and elbowed Yufit. “He’s new. Just got the job last month, and he’ll be going right back out on the street once Basil remembers he’s being paid to do nothing.”

  “You don’t need to let our friend know all my secrets.” Yufit playfully elbowed the man back. “He’s not interested in my upcoming idleness.”

  “Keep your eyes open,” said the man with mock concern. “He’ll come after your job next.”

  Yufit gave him a light shove. “Shut up.”

  The man laughed, then turned away as someone called his name. Yufit smiled at Amastan. “Don’t listen to him. I have something else lined up, just don’t tell Megar. But if you need something, Megar wasn’t lying about Basil having a few spots open. More than a few servants have left since Yanniq died.”

  Amastan leaned forward, sensing an opportunity. “Why’s that?”

  Yufit glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Some are saying the house is cursed. By jaan.”

  Amastan’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t find the words to respond. Thankfully, Idir responded for him.

  “Asaf!”

  Amastan popped out of his seat as if he’d been kicked. In truth, he’d been anxiously waiting for that summons, having lingered much longer than was appropriate. He gave Yufit an apologetic smile and hurried toward the kitchen with a slight sting of regret.

  It seemed like he was finally getting somewhere with the servants. He even had a few leads: Megar, who didn’t like Yanniq and seemed to be hiding something; Basil, Yanniq’s widow, who might have wanted revenge for something unspecified; and Yufit, who had handled Yanniq’s letters and would know with whom Yanniq had been speaking in his last days.

  One of them would lead him to the killer. If he handled this right, he could be done with this whole mess in a matter of days.

  8

  After scrubbing pots with stale oil for over an hour, the alley’s faint bite of urine and dung was almost refreshing. Amastan savored the hearth-hot air, his skin prickling with sweat that dried instantly. A salty crust had formed on his brow from the evening’s manual labor, which he itched to clean off.

  He picked at the salt on his forearm as he headed down the alley toward the street. He was deep within a daydream about wearing a clean wrap and sleeping in his blanket-strewn bed, the window cracked for a stir of breeze, and maybe Barag wouldn’t mind if he was a little late in the morning—

  “No!”

  Amastan stopped. A hot wind brushed his cheek. Had he heard that faint, sharp cry or just imagined it? The noise had come from the other end of the alley, near the edge of the platform. Even if he had heard something, that didn’t mean it was any of his business. He could ask the first watchman he came across to check on it.

  And yet, he wasn’t leaving.

  The wind had picked up, and now it gusted down the alley, teasing and grasping at the edges of his wrap. It smelled distinctly of gutted candles and charred iron. Somebody grunted, and a shoe scuffed across stone. Heat spread over Amastan’s collarbones; his charm was growing warm.

  Amastan turned toward the end of the alley, his heart beating so hard that his chest hurt. Fear stuck thick in his throat like week-old porridge. He hadn’t forgotten about the jaani, but he had begun to hope: that the winds had dragged it into the Wastes; that it had already grown weak and harmless; that the marab had found and quieted it; that there really was nothing to fear after all.

  Now that hope snapped and folded like a rusted ladder, and his stomach dropped with dread. His skin prickled with a cold, fresh sweat and his feet refused to move—either away or toward. The sensible part of him knew he should walk away. The panicked part of him thought he should run instead.

  Someone screamed.

  Amastan ran.

  But not away—no, toward. The wind all but dragged him along, sucking him down the alley to the platform’s edge. It didn’t matter how terrified he was. He had to help. What if it was him, alone, trapped by a jaani?

  The alley’s end came into view, a looming square of darkness. But a red haze swirled and smudged the darkness, blurring the platform on the other side of the gap and the man that was backed against the railing. A tagel glinted silver through the haze.

  Amastan’s charm was now so hot it hurt. He felt blisters forming beneath its heat. Take it off. His han
d had already lifted the pouch off his neck before he realized the thought wasn’t his own.

  It hurts, said the jaani.

  He let go of the pouch and gritted his teeth against the pain. He was breathing too quickly and becoming light-headed. He tried taking deeper, longer breaths, but it was a fight. As soon as his attention slipped, panic took control again. He stopped at the end of the alley, only a few feet from the jaani and its victim. The man hadn’t noticed him. His hands covered his ears and his eyes were squeezed shut, as if that might keep the jaani out.

  Amastan hesitated, still a few feet away. He’d never seen a jaani before, hadn’t known it was possible to see a jaani, but he was more than confident that what tore up the air in front of him and made his charm burn was just that. This close, the jaani’s heat was as intense as a roaring fire. The jaani whirled in place, whatever will it had focused on the man. Amastan trembled as he fought the urge, the need, to flee.

  But he couldn’t leave this man to a fate worse than death. Before he could think about it, Amastan leaned forward and pushed his hand through the swirling red.

  “Grab my hand!”

  The man looked up through spread fingers and Amastan recognized those wide, steel-cold eyes. Yufit. It took the servant a moment to find and focus on Amastan and in that moment, Amastan knew it was too late. The jaani had Yufit, he’d been too slow, he should run—

  Run, said the jaani.

  Yufit grabbed his hand. Amastan yanked hard, pulling Yufit to his feet and through the jaani’s whirling winds. At the last moment, the jaani started to condense, becoming thicker than air, dragging at them. But it couldn’t stop their momentum. Yufit fell forward and into Amastan, toppling them both. Amastan caught himself with an out-thrown hand, but Yufit had nothing to hold onto except for Amastan. For a heartbeat, their bodies were pressed close, Yufit’s steel-dark eyes only inches from Amastan’s. Yufit’s tagel fluttered with his breath, warm and wet and laced with anise and stale wine.

  “Asaf?” gasped Yufit, his voice raw.

  The wind shifted. It was no longer blowing down the alley and out, but twisting around them both, hissing and clawing. Angry. Amastan slid his arms beneath Yufit’s armpits and hauled him upright. He grabbed Yufit’s hand and barked one word.

  “Run.”

  They ran. Yufit easily paced Amastan, even when he fell into an all-out sprint. The wind buffeted them, seeking to draw them back, but then they burst out of the alley’s mouth, onto the street, and into a pool of stillness. Yufit began to lag, glancing back, but Amastan tightened his grip and kept running. No way he was stopping. Not yet. Maybe never.

  They passed through the center of a platform, garnering a few curious glances from passersby, then flew down the opposite street and across a bridge to the next platform. Here, Yufit tried to slow again, but Amastan’s panic wouldn’t let him stop. Only a bridge and platform later did Amastan begin to slow, and only then because his legs and lungs burned and there was just one platform left between them and the eastern edge of Ghadid.

  Amastan stumbled to a stop outside a pumphouse. He leaned against the squat building’s wall as he sucked in breath after breath. Even as he recovered, he kept an eye on the way they’d come, expecting the jaani’s whirling red to appear at any moment. Beside him, Yufit wheezed and gasped, sweat shining on his forehead. He looked up as his breathing steadied, and Amastan offered him a shaky smile. Yufit smiled back, equally unsure, then snorted with laughter.

  Amastan shared the laugh despite his own bewilderment—or because of it. They’d escaped the jaani, they’d survived, and even though it was still out there somewhere, it wasn’t here, and that was all that mattered right then.

  Yufit straightened. “What a mess we are.”

  “Are you okay, sa?”

  Yufit turned his arms over as if examining them. “You should ask if I’m sane.”

  Amastan frowned. “Are you sane, sa?”

  “Yes,” said Yufit, sounding surprised at the answer. “Oh, thank G-d.” At Amastan’s perplexed look, he explained, “A jaani can’t lie. In case you ever run into one. Again.”

  “That’s convenient, sa.”

  “That is, assuming the Azali who told me that wasn’t lying himself.” Yufit shrugged. “You can never trust an iluk, except perhaps when it comes to jaan. They’re a fact of life down on the sands, after all.” He messed with his tagel, which had come loose during their flight.

  “What happened?”

  Yufit pulled his tagel back over his ears, his gaze unfocused. “I don’t know. I was trying to go home when the wind picked up. By the time I realized it was a jaani, it was too late.”

  Amastan nodded. Silently, he cursed the drum chiefs for their decision to keep the news of a wild jaani secret. How many other innocent people would be attacked? How many wouldn’t be rescued in time? “I thought jaan stayed on the sands.”

  “I thought so, too.” Yufit finished knotting his tagel and dropped his hands. “Obviously not.”

  He finally looked at Amastan, his features fully hidden save for his metal-dark eyes and thin, wiry eyebrows. The skin was smooth around those eyes, young. Yufit couldn’t be more than a few seasons older. Amastan found himself wishing he could see behind the tagel and read Yufit’s expression. Shame flushed hot across his neck for thinking such thoughts.

  “Thank you,” said Yufit, his voice softer. “I owe you.”

  The heat spread to Amastan’s ears. “It’s nothing, sa.”

  Yufit took Amastan’s hand, his gaze fixing Amastan in place. His hands were warm and smooth save for his fingertips, which were rough. Amastan pictured the ink staining those fingers. Writing would do that.

  Yufit was a scribe. Yufit was Yanniq’s scribe. Amastan mentally shook himself. The hand he held might have written something that would reveal who had killed Yanniq. Out of Yanniq’s whole household, his scribe would know about his dealings, his enemies, his business. Perhaps more than even his wives knew.

  And here Yufit was, admitting he owed Amastan a debt. Amastan couldn’t let this opportunity go to waste.

  “You braved a jaani to save a stranger,” said Yufit. “It’s not nothing. Come, drop the ‘sa’ and at least let me repay you.” He reached for a pouch at his waist, one Amastan assumed was full of baats.

  In that instant, Amastan saw the future play out. He accepted the money. He saw Yufit again, at the inn, but it was awkward now. The attack hung between them, unspoken and heavy and blocking any potential conversation aside from a greeting and a good-bye. Amastan lost the possibility to get more information from Yufit.

  Or—

  “All right,” he said. “You can buy me tea sometime.”

  Yufit’s fingers froze. He hesitated, clearly thrown off. But then his eyes crinkled with a warm smile. “Okay. I can do that.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Amastan, pushing ahead. “Do you have time in the evening?”

  Yufit tilted his head. “I do, but—don’t you have to work?”

  “Idir said Sarif was feeling better,” said Amastan. Idir hadn’t, but if Amastan didn’t poison Sarif tonight, he might be well enough to work the next day. He’d gotten everything he could out of the servants about Yanniq. He might still be able to talk to Megar on his own, but if he asked any more questions about Yanniq’s death in the inn, it would get suspicious, quick. No—this was his best lead. He just had to follow it. “I think tonight was my last night.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s okay,” said Amastan quickly, pushing past his own discomfort. “Like I said, it was only for the extra baats. So—tea. What time?”

  Yufit was silent, his eyes betraying none of the emotions that might be playing beneath his tagel. Amastan bit his lip, hoping his nerves didn’t show. Had he pushed too hard? Too fast? But he didn’t have time to waste, not while Yanniq’s killer was still out there. He only had until season’s end, after all.

  “Sunset,” said Yufit.

  Amastan hid his relief with a nod. “
Sunset it is.”

  “We can meet here,” continued Yufit. “I live nearby, anyway.”

  “Okay.” All at once, exhaustion crashed over Amastan. Now that he’d secured his lead, all he wanted to do was go home and pretend a jaani hadn’t just chased him across the city. The realization that he’d had a brush with a wild jaani—and survived—was only now catching up to him. He’d faced a jaani and lived.

  The likelihood of surviving a second encounter with a jaani must be vanishingly slim.

  “G-d be with you,” said Yufit. “And take care, Asaf.”

  Yufit headed south. Amastan watched him go, the unease in his gut lingering. The jaani was still out there. Why had it attacked Yufit? And if it was Yanniq’s jaani, why hadn’t it attacked anyone else? Clearly the jaani hadn’t been blown out to the sands and the Wastes like they’d assumed, which meant it had been running free in the city for several days now. At least.

  Amastan tried to shake off the feeling that he was sending Yufit back into danger. Did Yufit even have a charm? Amastan pictured his neck, the silver tagel covering most of it, his wrap high enough to hide the rest. But even beneath a layer of cloth, Amastan should’ve been able to spot a lump where Yufit’s charm would be. There’d been no lump.

  Amastan touched his own charm, which had cooled to skin temperature. If something happened to Yufit …

  “Hey—wait up!”

  Yufit paused in the alleyway and waited for Amastan to catch up. A flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes, but was gone as quickly as it came. Amastan undid the knot of his charm as he approached and slid it from around his neck. He held the small leather pouch out to Yufit.

  “Take this,” said Amastan. When Yufit began to shake his head and hold up his hands, Amastan pushed the charm into his palm and added, “I have another at home.”

  Yufit’s fingers closed around the pouch. “I’ve never needed a charm before.”

  “You’ve probably never been attacked by a jaani before, either.”

  “Fair.” Yufit smiled and laced the pouch around his neck. “But now I owe you once more.”