by K A Doore
Amastan wanted to leave and find Yufit. But he didn’t need to. Yufit would wait. Megar wouldn’t.
The inn was thick with stale breath and conversation. A few eyes cut their way, but none held any interest. A server wiped down one of the many empty tables. With another pang of guilt, Amastan recognized Sarif. Thankfully, Sarif had never met Amastan or Asaf, and when he paused to call out a greeting, it lacked either recognition or blame.
Some of Yanniq’s—ma Yanniq’s—servants were clustered at a table. The inn seemed even emptier than it had been a few days before. Megar headed for another table on the opposite side of the room. Heads turned and Amastan heard snatches of whispered interest.
Megar patted one side of the table, then swung into the chair opposite. He leaned on his elbows, his sleeves falling back to reveal his arms, tight with muscle. Where Yufit was slender, almost angular, Megar was dense and rounded. His eyes were just as dark, but they lacked Yufit’s sharpness. Megar was clearly a product of physical labor, his nails stubby and black with oil. Amastan wondered if they’d ever been stained by blood.
Megar lifted a hand in the air as Sarif passed. “Two glasses, and be quick about it.”
When he dropped his hand, Amastan asked, “Why is ma Yanniq worried about allocation?”
Megar shrugged. “Why are any of the drum chiefs worried about it? Depending on how well it goes, her year will either be that much easier or harder. I wouldn’t worry—she’s been handling allocation since long before Yanniq ate sand.”
So Yanniq had been shirking more than just his duties for the Circle. But if Basil ma Yanniq had picked up his slack, then there wouldn’t have been any disruptions to the allocation. No anger among his neighborhood, at least not widespread. Perhaps Basil had grown weary of doing all the work of a drum chief without any of the rewards.
Could she have dispatched Megar to kill Yanniq? Maybe Megar hadn’t been motivated by anger, but loyalty to Basil. He and Basil could have planned the whole thing together, come up with a plausible excuse to bring Yanniq onto a strange rooftop. Letting Yanniq’s jaani go wild might not have been an act of rage, but one of contempt.
Sarif dropped off their wine and Megar immediately took a long pull. “I wasn’t joking when I told you that you should apply to ma Yanniq. There’re a lot of positions open and she’s got a steady hand. Besides, with Yufit gone, ma Yanniq needs someone to write letters. A man like you can’t do much better than working in a drum chief’s house.”
Amastan pulled his glass close but didn’t drink. “But doesn’t ma Yanniq already have someone? I thought that was why she’d fired Yufit.”
“Why would she? She was only a wife. Now that she’s ma Yanniq, though, she needs one.”
Had Yufit lied? No, Amastan doubted that. It was more likely that he’d glossed over the truth. Amastan looked at his hands. “I want to, but what if whoever killed Yanniq isn’t done?”
“He wouldn’t go after a servant,” said Megar with absolute certainty.
“He?”
Megar shrugged. “Well, you don’t think a woman could kill a drum chief, do you?”
Amastan thought of Tamella, Menna, and Dihya, each cousin stronger and faster than him. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he saw Megar on a rooftop, blood pooling at his feet.
“It was probably another drum chief,” continued Megar, his words spreading out as he took another long drink. “They have special people, you know.” He leaned across the table and added in a mock whisper, “Assassins.”
The hair on the back of Amastan’s neck prickled. He tried to gently redirect the conversation. “Why would a drum chief want Yanniq dead?”
“Dunno.” Megar rolled a shrug. “But he didn’t get along with most of them, not for a long time. Part of the reason he was so useless. Hard to work together when no one wants to work with you. Had a big fight with them years back. Plus, he’s friends with the Serpent.”
“The Serpent?” echoed Amastan, even though he knew exactly who Megar meant.
Megar raised a finger, his eyebrows coming together as if in sudden realization. But he overplayed the effect. “Y’know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed Yanniq.”
Amastan stared, lost. “Who?”
“The Serpent. Pay attention.”
“But the Serpent’s not—” began Amastan before thinking better of it. He was on shifting ground; how much did the average person know about Tamella?
Thankfully, Megar hadn’t noticed. “They used to be buddies, those two. But I bet the Serpent turned on him. I mean, what can you expect from a trained killer? It has to be in his blood.”
Amastan bit his tongue to keep from defending Tamella. It was best if no one understood what—and who—the Serpent was. But this line of conversation was going nowhere; Tamella hadn’t killed Yanniq. Even if Amastan had reason to doubt her sincerity, she wouldn’t have killed Emet, and she certainly wouldn’t have left both of their jaan to go wild.
But there was his connection between Yanniq and Emet, plain as a vulture in the sky. Of course, a connection could be drawn between Tamella and any of the drum chiefs. It might be a false lead, but it was the first one he’d had. He’d have to ask Barag about it tomorrow. He had a lot to ask Barag.
Still, he couldn’t rid himself of the image of Megar on that rooftop. He had to be involved, somehow. Amastan just needed to find the evidence.
Megar upended his mug into his mouth. He raised the mug overhead to get the attention of Sarif, then thumped it heavy-handed on the table, denting the thin, pressed-wood panel that covered the metal beneath. His hand slid across the wood to find and grab Amastan’s mug, which he pulled to himself. Amastan let him, watching with morbid fascination. He wondered if Megar had actually tasted any of the wine he’d just had.
Amastan decided he had enough information for now. Although a drunk Megar might divulge more, Amastan didn’t want to risk missing Yufit entirely. He needed to know more about the relationship between Yufit and Megar, and what Yufit believed Megar was capable of. He pushed back from the table and stood.
“Thank you for the drink, sa,” he said, even though he hadn’t had a drop of it.
Megar’s head tilted back and his eyes narrowed. “Where you going? I’ve got all night—don’t you?”
“I have a meeting,” admitted Amastan.
Megar’s eyes narrowed even further. “Not with that Yufit, is it?” At Amastan’s surprise, Megar laughed. Then he leaned farther forward, as if to bridge the distance Amastan had put between them. “Don’t look so alarmed. I fix things that’re broken and I’m good at what I do. Yufit needs someone; he always tried too hard to be a loner in the household. I’d never seen him look at anyone like he looked at you. So, the way I see it is, you owe me. You can’t go until you answer some of my questions.”
Amastan hesitated. “Like what?”
“Who is Yufit?”
“Don’t you know? You worked with him.”
“For a month.” Megar frowned. “Like I said, he kept to himself. I want to know where Yanniq found him. And”—he leaned farther still, his chair threatening to tip over—“I want to know why he left without saying anything. Tell him he owes me.”
“I can ask,” said Amastan carefully. He could and would—and he’d also ask if Yufit trusted Megar. If he’d really left without telling Megar, then there had to be a good reason.
Megar suddenly pushed himself up from the table. He swayed precariously but didn’t lose his balance. “No, tell you what. I want to ask him myself. Besides, it’s getting dark and you shouldn’t be walking these streets alone. You never know what could be lurking out there. If the Serpent is back in business, not a one of us is safe.”
“I’ll be all right, sa,” said Amastan. “It’s only a few platforms away.”
“Then you shouldn’t mind me tagging along.” Megar rounded the table. He pulled at his wrap, trying to straighten it out but only yanking it further askew.
Amastan bit his lip, thi
nking fast. The last thing he wanted was for Megar to tag along and intrude on his meeting. He suddenly saw Megar in the pumphouse, holding the screwdriver up like a weapon. But this time, Yufit was there, crumpled before him. What if Yufit had left because he’d realized Megar had been behind Yanniq’s death? And now Megar wanted to find him.
“I just want to see that he’s all right,” continued Megar. His eyes were glassy with drink, but every word was crisp and clear. As if practiced. “We left off on a misunderstanding, him and I.”
On the edge of his awareness, the inn’s front door opened and closed. It was an unremarkable event that caught Amastan’s attention nonetheless. He glanced over. No one was near the door; someone must have just left. A hot breath of wind swirled around him and although he knew it had just come from outside, the hair on the back of his neck prickled.
“I’m not meeting with Yufit,” lied Amastan, backing away. “But if I do—”
Megar was fast. He grabbed Amastan’s wrist and pulled him in close. “Yufit smiles like a knife. He’s a sharp one. Take care he doesn’t cut you.”
Amastan breathed deep to reply. The air tasted of pinched candles and burnt iron. His stomach dropped and suddenly, he couldn’t remember what he’d been about to say. When had his charm started to feel so warm?
The breeze twisted and played with his wrap. The torches on the walls flickered and guttered. The murmuring of conversation in the inn wavered, paused. In the brief silence, the wind’s voice was the loudest, a whistling, incoherent whine. Then the conversation continued, if a bit louder than before.
Amastan pulled himself out of Megar’s grasp. Behind Megar’s shoulder, the air smudged. Red spread, deepened. Fear froze Amastan’s tongue and lips. A jaani? It couldn’t be. Not now. Not here.
Amastan didn’t have time to understand Megar’s words. Someone shouted, “jaani!” and chaos erupted. Amastan ducked to the side as the servants swarmed past, scrambling for the door. Above their heads, the wind churned and the red condensed into a distinct shape, one he’d seen in a glasshouse only last night. A wavery figure with two long arms and two long legs and two empty spots where eyes should’ve been. These shifted in the tumultuous air to stare at him.
“Run!” he shouted to Megar, then took his own advice and broke for the door.
Someone had already wrenched it open and people spilled into the street. But a gust of heat and iron caught up to Amastan before he could reach the door, and as the last servant escaped, the door slammed shut.
Amastan spun. He stared into those hollow eyes, mere feet from him now. His charm burned as if it were flame, but he couldn’t move. His fear had swallowed him whole, left him as solid and immobile as stone, his mind just as blank. He was back in the glasshouse with Emet’s body, but now there was no Menna to stop the jaani.
The jaani blew closer, its red form endlessly shifting like smoke. Drums beat beneath his skin—or was that only his heart? Tendrils swirled around him, wiping out the sight and sound and smell of the inn, so that all Amastan knew was red and wind and sun-forged iron.
“You get away from him!”
A chair broke the hypnotic swirl, cutting the jaani in half. Amastan blinked as the sensation of place and time returned to him. He dropped his hand that had been about to rip off his charm. Meanwhile, the jaani churned faster, bringing itself back together, and turned its sightless eyes on the man wielding a chair like a weapon. Megar.
Amastan had enough time to feel surprise before the jaani struck. But not him—it lashed out at Megar with one of its too-long arms, hitting him square in the chest. Megar let out a startled grunt and crumpled to the ground. The jaani swirled tighter for a moment, its arm hovering over Megar as if it wasn’t sure what had just happened.
Amastan swallowed his cry of surprise and fear. Megar was still conscious, blinking owlishly up at the jaani with his tagel half off. Beneath, Megar’s dark lips moved soundlessly. He frowned and his chest swelled with a deep breath, but when his mouth opened again, no sound came out. The jaani whirled around him, its legs disappearing as if it were kneeling, enveloping Megar in red. His eyes widened in fear.
Amastan grabbed his charm and yanked. “Hey!”
The jaani swiveled its attention back to him. So did Megar. Amastan lobbed his charm through the jaani’s torso to Megar, who caught it. The jaani immediately dispersed, as if blown away by a hard wind. But Amastan’s momentary thrill of victory was replaced with panic when the jaani began to coalesce again, this time around him. And now he didn’t have any charms.
He took in the room. No one was left but him and Megar. With the thinnest shred of a plan, Amastan hurled himself through the jaani. But not toward the door.
He slid next to Megar and held out his hand. Killer or not, he wasn’t about to leave anyone to the mercy of a jaani. Megar grimaced and took it and Amastan hauled him to his feet. Amastan folded Megar’s fingers around the charm, then put his own hand on top. He gestured toward the back of the inn. Megar didn’t need any further prompting.
They stumbled between the tables and overturned chairs toward the door in the back that led out onto the alley. The wind tore at their wraps and hissed in their ears, but its grasping fingers slipped off. The air darkened around them, turning red. And between them, the charm began to smoke. Amastan could feel the heat even through Megar’s hand. But Megar held on.
Amastan reached the door first and threw it open. Then he was outside, turning, grabbing Megar and pulling him through the door. In the same motion, he yanked the charm from Megar’s fingers and slammed the door shut. He slipped the charm around the door’s handle, then snatched his hand back. The charm had burned his fingers and now they sang with pain.
The door shuddered and shook, then went still. Thick smoke curled from the charm, its edges turning black. Amastan wasn’t sure how long it’d last, and he didn’t want to think about what would happen when the charm failed. He needed to find a marabi.
He needed Menna.
Megar was already stumbling down the alley. Amastan passed him, spilling out onto the platform’s center. As he took a moment to reorient himself, he thought he heard the creak of a door opening. But the inn’s front door was still shut fast.
The center was devoid of other people. The fleeing servants must have scared them away. He hoped that meant the jaani wouldn’t hurt anyone, but as he headed north, he couldn’t help but wonder why the jaani had come to the inn. Why it had come inside. It had almost seemed as if it were looking for someone.
But that couldn’t be possible.
Amastan had just stepped onto the bridge when the breeze picked up, bringing with it the too-familiar smells of burnt metal and gutted flame.
That was his only warning.
Something slammed into him as hard as a camel’s kick. He hit the railing at the wrong angle. Heat and wind and hot iron buffeted him, lifting him up. Over. Down.
He fell.
14
Amastan didn’t have time for fear, only nerves and instinct. His hands shot out, grabbing for anything they could catch. The railing slipped from his grasp, but his fingers hit and snagged on a wooden slat. His fingertips and nails scraped across rough wood as his hands took the full weight of his body and his arms felt as if they might jerk right out of his sockets.
But his arms held and his grip didn’t give. Amastan hung from the bridge by his fingertips, fighting the pain building in his forearms and the terror building in his chest. He didn’t dare look down.
Let go.
The jaani swirled around him, filling the gap between the platforms. Its heat and smell seared his nose. Amastan tried to ignore it, but the jaani’s red smeared his vision and something tugged at his wrap. His fingers were beginning to slip. He couldn’t hold on much longer.
He tried to pull himself up, but the jaani was pulling him down with equal strength. Already his arms were beginning to tire, his fingertips slipping by a hair’s width. If he could inch along to the platform, he might be able
to get a better grip.
The jaani whirled tighter, its red deepening. Sound grew muted, as if Amastan’s ears were clogged. He could feel the jaani trying to find its way in through his nose, his mouth. Tiny, weak fingers tugged at the skin of his face, unsure but persistent. He held his breath and tried to scoot along the bridge. His fingers slipped. Suddenly, he was hanging by only one hand.
Let go, whispered the voice again, smooth as smoke.
Amastan closed his eyes. He was going to die. For some reason, the realization filled him with calm instead of panic. And a wry sense of amusement. Of all the ways to go out, he’d never imagined plunging to his death. At least it’d be over quickly.
“Asaf!”
Amastan’s eyes shot open, but all he could see was red. He tried to crane his head, but the movement made his fingers slip another precarious quarter inch. His heart raced.
“Grab my hand!”
Fingers shot through the red. Amastan reached up with his free hand. The fingers wrapped around his wrist and pulled. The jaani’s hold loosened, slipped. Another hand reached down and grabbed his forearm, helping him up and over. Amastan tumbled onto the bridge. In that moment, he’d never been happier to have his cheek pressed against warm wood.
A hand covered his and Amastan started. He looked up into steel-gray eyes. Then those same hands were helping him stand and the rush of wind brought Amastan back to the moment. He might not be dangling over the sands any longer, but he still had an angry jaani to contend with.
An angry jaani that for some reason was intent on him.
Yufit stood close, as if Amastan might fall over at any moment. “Thank you,” said Amastan. “Now run.”
They ran. Like an angry nightmare, the jaani whirled up and over the bridge. It chased them, still undeterred. Amastan’s thoughts, calm and quiet only a few moments ago when he stared death in the face, spun back to life. The jaani was behaving differently this time. When he’d rescued Yufit, all he’d had to do was put some distance between him and its anger. But now—
The jaani had found him in the inn, had gone straight for him. He’d stopped it with the charm, but only for a little while. Somehow, it had found him again. Which meant he could run as far and as fast as he wanted, but the jaani would still be right there. And he couldn’t run forever. He needed a destination. He needed a plan.