by K A Doore
“Tamella,” said Amastan instantly. “She’ll know for sure if he was a cousin.” He shook his head. “This isn’t supposed to happen.”
“No. It isn’t,” agreed Menna. “But it did.”
11
Even though it was late, Amastan knocked on Tamella’s dusty red door while Menna impatiently bounced on her toes at his side. It didn’t take long before the door opened. Tamella herself stood in the doorway, the hasty knots of her wrap the only sign that she might have been in bed moments before. That, and the irritation that laced her tight lips and furrowed brow.
Then her eyes slid past Menna and found Amastan and that irritation loosened into concern. She gestured them inside without a sound, closing the door and locking it behind them.
Inside was dark and quiet. Even the hearth held only dim embers that gave the room a warm glow. Amastan slipped off his sandals at the door and followed Tamella to the hearth.
“What happened?” asked Tamella.
Menna glanced at Amastan. “We found another body.”
Tamella frowned. “Do I need to separate you two?” She leaned against the hearth, arms folded. “Who was it this time? A rich merchant?”
“That’s the problem,” said Menna. “We didn’t recognize him.”
“But he’s a cousin,” added Amastan. “I’ve seen him before and he was clearly on contract—he was wearing an assassin’s wrap.”
Any lingering mirth vanished from Tamella’s expression. “Are you sure?”
“I know what I saw,” said Amastan.
“Take me to the body.”
“That’s not a good—” began Amastan just as Menna cut in with a sharp, “No.”
Tamella’s eyebrows lifted incredulously. Amastan doubted that many people had ever told her no.
“The body’s jaani is trapped along with it in a glasshouse,” continued Menna. Then she added apologetically, “It was the best I could do. We’ll need an elder if we want to try anything more than that, but I can tell you now that by the time we get back, it’ll be too late even for an elder. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” snapped Tamella. She rubbed her face, sighed. “How long before someone can go up there and retrieve the body?”
Menna frowned. “Unless the charm breaks first, a day. Unquieted jaan won’t go far from the body before then, and they’re usually too strong to do anything about. Too wound up, you see.” She flashed a smile, but it held no humor. “I can bring an elder up there late tomorrow.”
“You can’t take an elder if this was a cousin on contract,” said Tamella. “And I don’t know any other cousins who are marab.” She looked Menna straight in the eyes. “How long?”
Menna chewed her lip. When she spoke, she sounded exhausted. “Another day. The jaani may still be near, but it’ll be completely untethered. It won’t follow the body.”
Tamella nodded, lips pressed tight in a grim line. “We’ll need to know who the assassin was before then, to let the family know. But not only that—if he’s truly a cousin, then either he was incredibly stupid, or there’s someone out there who can best us.”
“It’s not just that,” said Amastan. “His body was hidden from view in an empty glasshouse at the end of season. If it hadn’t been for us, he wouldn’t have been found for weeks.”
Tamella’s intense gaze fixed him in place. “You think the same person who killed Yanniq got him?”
Amastan swallowed, nodded. But Menna spoke up. “It’s either that or hiding bodies is the new thing kids’re into these days.”
“I don’t know what Yanniq and a cousin have in common,” said Amastan. “I haven’t come across any connection.”
“It’ll help if you know whose body you found.” Tamella crossed her arms. “You won’t make any progress otherwise. And we’ll need to find out whether he actually was on a contract or just playing at being an assassin. Because if he was…” She shook her head, unwilling to complete her sentence. “There’s someone who can tell us both.”
Her gaze pinned Amastan. “It’s time you pay a visit to Kaseem.”
* * *
The sun pounded against the back of Amastan’s neck as he raised his hand to knock on the wall a third time. Beside him, Menna rocked from her heels to her toes and back again, her impatience infectious. Even though the morning was still young, the heat was already unbearable. The hottest time of the year was in the days right before season’s end, so although Amastan was broiling alive, the misery gave him an edge of hope.
Noise bubbled from the doorways on either side. Pans clinked and a kettle whistled and children screamed and laughed and cried while adult voices cajoled and chuckled and murmured. Amastan had been surprised when Tamella’s instructions led them to a low-class neighborhood. He’d expected better for the man who procured and provided their contracts. Not a place where the buildings held no spaces between them, where the walls had been constructed and mended with sand, where men wore tagels threadbare and stained with age.
Stringwork hung over most of the doorways, spun into shapes to ward off jaan and curses and bad luck. Kaseem’s had been one open doorway among many, the curtain that kept his privacy just as sun-faded and dust-streaked as the next.
That curtain twitched to the side before Amastan could knock. A wiry old man wearing a dark green tagel and matching wrap stood in the doorway, just out of reach of the sun’s harsh light. He leaned on a wooden cane, a bulb of amber at its top, and peered at them in weary, if expectant, silence.
Remembering Tamella’s instructions, Amastan pressed a closed fist to his chest and inclined his head. “Kaseem, sa. I’m Amastan Basbowen. Tamella sent us.”
Kaseem’s watery eyes swiveled to Menna, who mirrored Amastan’s motions. “Menna. Sa.”
“I can’t turn away family,” said Kaseem, his voice etched with none of the burrs or scratchiness of old age. Instead, his voice was fresh and clear and entirely at odds with his appearance. Amastan looked again, and this time saw the strength in Kaseem’s arms and posture and the way he leaned too heavily on his cane. Kaseem was putting on a show.
He used his cane to pull the curtain farther back and stepped out of the way. “I hope neither of you are expecting tea because it’s season’s end and I don’t want to share.”
Amastan stepped into the small home, Menna right behind him. He shook his head. “We’re just here to talk.”
He took in the narrow room with one glance: the cold hearth with the rusting kettle, the small table and two accompanying chairs, the worn and stained rug that barely covered half the dusty floor. In the shadows at the very back of the room was a leather cot, a thin sheet hanging off its end.
The bright light dimmed as Kaseem let the curtain drop back into place. He secured it on one side so the curtain wouldn’t blow open, then, still leaning heavily on his cane, limped toward the table and settled into one of the chairs. That limp, if nothing else, appeared to be real. He stacked his hands on top of the amber orb and peered at them for a heartbeat, then gave a curt nod.
“There’s an assassin dead on a roof right now, sa,” said Amastan. “We need to know who he was.”
Kaseem’s expression remained neutral. “What compels you to assume I would know?”
“He was on contract, sa.”
Kaseem gave no reaction. Tamella had warned them that it might be difficult to extract answers from the old man. Kaseem’s work as the contract purveyor required a fine, delicate balance. As the public face of the family, he bore no relation to any Basbowen and kept his own lineage secret. If someone needed a contract, they’d eventually find a way to him. A network of ears shepherded along anyone who might have a legitimate case. From there, Kaseem weeded the cases further.
Only he knew both the makers of the contracts and the assassins who completed them. The continuance of his work—and life—required that he maintain confidence on both sides. A mere whisper that he might have compromised a contact would mean the end of his work—and, more than likely, his
life.
Which was the reason why Amastan and Menna were here, now, without Tamella. The Serpent of Ghadid couldn’t be seen anywhere near Kaseem.
“Look, sa,” said Menna, her impatience flaring. “We know you’re not supposed to say anything, or even admit that there was a contract, but can we just skip that? A cousin’s dead—murdered—and his jaani is wild. We need to know who you selected for the last contract.”
“Your family’s troubles are of no interest to me,” said Kaseem. “Nor are they reason for me to betray my clients’ confidence.”
“Troubles?” said Menna.
Amastan touched her arm but spoke to Kaseem. “Sa—a cousin is dead. It appeared he was working a contract. I think that should be of interest to you.”
“I will handle the reassignment,” said Kaseem, but doubt flickered across his eyes. “My duty to your family and the city necessitates the utmost secrecy on my part. To betray that would destroy more than you realize. Delving into knowledge that isn’t yours won’t bring the dead back to life.”
“We’re not asking for him back, sa,” said Menna, her voice as sharp as a blade. “We just want to know whose body we’re collecting.”
“Surely you can identify your own dead.”
Menna stepped closer. “You see this, sa?” She plucked at the pale gray fabric of her wrap, so much of it now stained with smoke, dust, and blood. Unlike Amastan, she hadn’t bothered to change. “I know what I’m talking about when I say we can’t return to the body for at least a full day or more. Whoever killed our cousin hid him in a glasshouse. At the end of season. If not for us, he wouldn’t have been found for days. The killer wanted the jaani to go wild. So right now we have an angry jaani occupying the same glasshouse and I don’t want to go in there and identify a body. Do you? Sa?”
Kaseem’s eyebrows had slowly risen through Menna’s tirade until he looked incredulous. “What you describe is criminal on a whole different level. Have you thought about informing the drum chiefs?”
“They know, sa.” Amastan chewed his lip beneath his tagel for a moment. But if anyone could keep a secret, it was Kaseem. “Drum Chief Yanniq was found under similar circumstances.”
“How similar?” asked Kaseem, eyes narrowing.
“His body was hidden on a rooftop and his jaani went wild.” Amastan closed his eyes for a moment, but he didn’t see Yanniq’s shriveled corpse. Instead, he saw a whirl of red and a man cowering against a railing. Had that first jaani really been Yanniq’s? Or were there more bodies out there, waiting to be found? He took a breath and opened his eyes. “Except with Yanniq, we were several days too late.”
Kaseem let out a low whistle, but suspicion clouded his gaze. “You want me to believe that a drum chief was not only murdered, but disrespected, and the other drum chiefs haven’t turned the city upside down searching for the culprit?”
“They’ve kept those particular details quiet,” said Amastan. “And they’ve … asked us to find his killer. If the person who killed Yanniq also got this assassin, then we need to know who he was. The sooner you tell us, the sooner we’ll know if this was a fluke, something related, or … worse.”
“What could be worse than murder, boy?”
“A pattern of murders,” said Menna, catching on.
“I’d assumed that Yanniq’s was the only one of its kind,” said Amastan. “But what if it’s not?”
“You think the killer will strike again,” said Kaseem.
“Give me a reason to think otherwise, sa.”
Kaseem shifted his cane between his hands, his gaze boring into Amastan. “I owe you no explanation.”
“Then the drum chiefs, sa,” pressed Amastan. “If this information helps us find Yanniq’s killer—”
Kaseem’s harsh laugh cut him off. “You think I answer to the drum chiefs?”
“Apparently not,” snapped Menna. “Since you’ve been handing out contracts when they aren’t allowed. Sa.”
“I won’t tolerate such insolence.” Kaseem’s gaze was sharp. His hands had stopped fidgeting with the cane and now his whole body stiffened. “Leave.”
“I only get insolent when someone’s being profoundly stubborn, sa.”
“Menna…” warned Amastan.
“Well he is!” Menna looked like she wanted to stomp her foot, but somehow she resisted. “A man is dead, ’Stan, and worse, I couldn’t even save his jaani. Now this trussed-up self-important sand peddler thinks he’s above telling us the poor man’s name.”
“Do you speak to all your elders this way?” asked Kaseem, annoyance warring with amusement.
Menna lifted her chin. “No. Only the ones who deserve it. Sa.”
Kaseem laughed again, this time a less harsh sound. Then his cane whipped out, cracking across the back of Menna’s knees. She gasped and toppled, her legs giving out from under her. Amastan grabbed her arm to keep her from falling face forward, but she’d already caught herself. She rose shakily to her feet. Kaseem’s cane was back beneath his palms as if it had never moved. He was smiling.
“Leave.”
Menna hissed through her teeth. “Not until—”
“Maybe you should,” interrupted Amastan. “Just … wait outside for a minute.”
Menna stared at him, hurt mixing with betrayal. Then her nostrils flared and she stomped her foot, lips pressed so hard together that the edges turned white. But she turned and went, ripping open the curtain so hard that Amastan feared she’d tear it down. She didn’t. The curtain fell back into place. The sudden thwack of flesh smacking stone made Amastan jump and Kaseem flinch. It sounded suspiciously like a fist hitting the wall. Then—silence.
Kaseem breathed out and some of his strength leached into his breath. He looked older by a decade in the span of a second. His gaze fell to the floor.
“I’m sorry, sa,” said Amastan quietly.
Kaseem waved him off. “She’s not you. I appreciate her passion, but I didn’t get this far by letting anyone talk to me like that.” He lifted his gaze. “I can’t tell you his name, you understand.”
The sinking sensation that Amastan had been fighting off returned. He sighed. “I hoped otherwise, sa.”
“Do you really think whoever got him will kill again?”
Amastan chewed his lip, his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides as he reexamined the similarities between the two deaths yet again. “I do.”
Kaseem nodded, more to himself than Amastan. Then he reached across the table and picked up a pen. He uncapped a small inkwell, dipped the pen, and wrote on the edge of a scrap of thin papyrus. He ripped off the edge and pushed it toward Amastan before standing up.
“I’m not telling you anything you didn’t already know,” said Kaseem. “Your impudent friend should’ve known who he was. She would’ve remembered on her own.”
Amastan stared at the scrap in disbelief, then snatched it off the table.
“Thank you, sa,” he said.
“Don’t thank me yet.” Kaseem settled his hands back on top of his cane. “The drum chiefs aren’t known for rewarding good deeds. Remember that.”
Amastan ducked his head, the piece of paper clutched to his heart like a treasure. Yet he was afraid to look at it. “G-d be with you, sa.”
“Just go.”
With another nod, Amastan fled for the door as if Kaseem might change his mind at any moment and demand the paper—and the name—back.
Menna waited just outside, her hand outstretched. Amastan passed her the scrap of paper and she looked at it. Then she let out a tiny puff of air, not quite a gasp.
“My father’s brother. I mean, my uncle. I should’ve recognized him. I just—It’s been so long since I’ve seen him. My father’s family never wanted much to do with us. But I—I didn’t know Emet was an assassin.”
“What does he have to do with Yanniq?” asked Amastan.
But Menna was already shaking her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I’ll ask around, just in case, but—I’m sorry, Amastan
.” She put the scrap of paper back into his hand. “This only complicates things.”
12
Amastan ran his finger across the stacks of scrolls, the circles of vellum rough against his fingertips. The familiar movement he’d repeated a hundred or a thousand times helped ground his jumbled thoughts. Behind him, Barag’s pen scratched across vellum, the occasional pause followed by a sigh or a breath or a shh of shifting fabric.
In essence, Amastan was in his element. So why did his fingers shake as he searched the shelves and why did his heart pound when his thoughts strayed to last night? But not to the jaani—for once, he didn’t think about corpses and madness. In the light of day, the blood-smeared glasshouse seemed so far away. He believed Menna when she’d said the jaani would be trapped in the glasshouse for another day or longer. And neither did his thoughts stray to Emet, a cousin he’d never known.
No. To Yufit.
But why? He barely knew the man. Yufit was only Yanniq’s old scribe, a means to an end. Amastan had forced himself to show interest. He’d gotten the information he’d wanted, the beginning of a thread that he hoped wouldn’t become as complex as stringwork.
And then Yufit had shown interest back. Amastan hadn’t planned for that, didn’t quite know how to handle it. Bemusement, curiosity, confusion, dislike—those Amastan had planned for. After all, Yufit had all but called him dull and boring. And yet.
Now as he tried to focus, he couldn’t help but think about his next meeting with Yufit tonight. Fun, he’d said. What did that mean to a man like Yufit, who had worked for a drum chief, who had spent many evenings drinking with servants, who had made friends with a man like Megar? Amastan didn’t know, but he did know that the nauseating prickling sensation that whirled in his gut whenever he thought about Yufit wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
He shook himself mentally and forced himself to focus. The evening would come. Meanwhile, he didn’t have much time to waste. The killer would kill again.
The scrolls in front of him blurred together. Barag thought Amastan was looking for corroborating texts to help clarify the smudged script on the scroll he was copying. Instead, he was searching for records of past drum chief Circles and their decisions. Who had Yanniq pardoned?