The Perfect Assassin

by K A Doore

  Finally, determination.

  “We’ll figure this out before anyone else gets hurt.” Menna grabbed Amastan’s arm and all but yanked him down the stairs. “Elder Dessin will know what’s going on. He always knows what’s going on.”

  * * *

  Elder Dessin hadn’t known what was going on, but he’d already been planning on bringing the other elders together to discuss the situation. Even though the jaani had been intent on Amastan instead of hurting anyone else, enough people had seen it in the Aeser neighborhood to start a panic. After announcing that he would speak with the elders, Dessin had shooed them out, claiming that he needed to go back to sleep.

  The meeting of the elders should be happening soon. Amastan dipped his pen in ink and wondered if Menna would be there. He’d given her as many details as he could, down to how the jaani had shoved Megar and stolen his voice. He just didn’t mention that he knew Megar. Nor what he suspected Megar had done.

  It was in the elders’ hands now. He had to trust them to know what to do. That was their job, after all. And he had his own job to do.

  Amastan scanned over his work from yesterday, but his attention was split. Thinking of Megar reminded him of what Megar had said. He’d mentioned the Serpent, had claimed that she and Yanniq were once more than mere acquaintances, maybe even friends. Amastan could hardly believe it and suspected Megar was inflating rumors, but any connection between Yanniq and the family was worth following up.

  He also remembered what Megar hadn’t said, his strange obsession with Yufit. If Megar was the killer, maybe Yufit had seen something he shouldn’t. He wouldn’t have a chance to ask Yufit until tomorrow, though. But two were dead and time was falling. He didn’t have time to wait. He’d have to seek what answers he could from the scrolls.

  His gaze drifted from the scrolls in front of him to the hearth, where Thana sat alone, practicing stringwork. She bent over a set of leather strands and wove them together, only her fingers moving as she set and tightened the complicated knots. It was unusual for Thana to be home while he and Barag worked. Usem usually picked her up for her lessons before Amastan arrived, but he wouldn’t be stopping by today; he’d given Thana the day off.

  “Do you remember doing that?”

  Amastan looked up to find Barag had materialized in front of his table. The old man carried two cups and a pot of tea. He didn’t look like he was harboring any secrets, but Usem had said …

  “Stringwork?” Amastan picked up his pen and uncapped the ink. “Tamella wouldn’t let us do anything else for weeks.” She’d insisted it was good for their precision. As with everything Tamella had insisted on, she’d been right.

  “Here—it looks like you could use this.” Barag set a cup in front of Amastan and filled it with steaming tea. “It also looks like you were out all night. Tamella mentioned you’ve been interviewing Yanniq’s old servants.”

  Amastan gratefully wrapped his hands around the tea even as guilt rose and stuck in his throat. “I haven’t got very far.” He watched the steam rise from his cup, curling and twisting and spinning like the jaani. He pushed the cup away. “Did she say anything about Emet?”

  Barag nodded gravely, his hands curled around the teapot. “A cousin dead. And the healers confirmed he died the same way as Yanniq: a knife wound to the thigh. He never had a chance.”

  “I’m at a loss,” admitted Amastan. He rubbed his forehead, pushing his tagel back. “I don’t know what Yanniq and Emet have in common or why someone would want to kill either of them. I have leads, possibilities, but none of it feels right. I’m missing something.” He drew a deep breath, met Barag’s gaze. Ask him about it sometime, Usem had said. “Did Tamella ever break a contract?”

  Barag held his gaze a little too long. “Who said that?”

  “Usem.”

  “Of course.” Barag huffed in annoyance, then leaned back, considering Amastan. “I don’t see what it could have to do with Yanniq or Emet. It’s not a secret, not exactly. And you’ll find out eventually when you reach that part of the history.” He raised a finger. “Don’t tell Tam’ I told you, all right?”

  Amastan nodded.

  Barag took a deep breath. “I used to be the drum chiefs’ records keeper and occasional poet.”

  “You were a poet?” asked Amastan, despite himself.

  “I’m still a poet,” corrected Barag. “History is a kind of poetry. It also pays better.” He cleared his throat. “When one of the drum chief’s records didn’t match up, I did some rustling. That’s how I discovered a conspiracy between them and several prominent merchants. Naïve fool that I was, I pointed out the discrepancy to the drum chief who had the most to lose. That earned me a contract.”

  “Wait—a contract? On you?”

  Barag chuckled darkly. “Yes. And that was only their first mistake. Tamella took the contract, but she realized something was off. What they’d claimed I’d done didn’t match with what she saw during her surveillance. Instead of killing me, she saved me. And instead of completing her contract, she took it upon herself to find the conspirators and stop them. So yes, she broke her contract.” He smiled and poured himself a cup of tea. “That’s how we met.”

  Amastan sat with that information for a moment. Tamella had broken her contract, but the contract had been unjust. Tamella had killed outside of a contract, but she’d saved the city. The drum chiefs had condemned her, yet Megar spoke as if Yanniq had been her friend. And Amastan had only heard Tamella speak of the Circle with disdain.

  “Did Tamella—” began Amastan.

  A heavy drumbeat cut off his question, followed on its heels by another. It reverberated through his skull and stilled his tongue. He exchanged a glance with Barag, who appeared equally puzzled. A third drumbeat confirmed what he’d begun to suspect: this was a calling.

  Barag rolled his eyes and set his teacup down. He gestured to Thana, but his daughter had already discarded her stringwork and was headed for the door. A cold dread bloomed in Amastan’s gut as he followed, the drumbeat dragging them all to the calling.

  What was it this time? Drum Chief Hennu had called them last time to announce Yanniq’s death. Had another drum chief died? If so, maybe the drum chiefs would finally take responsibility for finding the killer. Amastan didn’t dare hope.

  The heat was already at an exquisite peak when they stepped out into the too-bright daylight. A haze had settled over the streets, leaching both color and life from the city. All around them, other people hunched and blinked under the onslaught. But just the same, the drumbeat drew them out, brought them one by one and in groups to the center of the neighborhood. Unlike last time, Amastan didn’t push his way forward. Barag and Thana stood with him at the edge of the crowd.

  Drum Chief Hennu’s bright blue wrap was a beacon on the dais. Her gold necklaces and bracelets and earrings shone like tiny suns, too painful to look at. Beside her, the slave pounded on her drum. Behind her, her retinue of servants, slaves, and watchmen stood, straight-backed and attentive. At her other side, a frail old man in a brilliant red wrap stood, leaning heavily on a staff: Elder Dessin.

  The slave beat the drum for another minute. Then Drum Chief Hennu sliced the air with her hand and the slave stopped. She picked up the drum and raised it over her head, turning this way and that. The crowd, already quiet, grew still as stone. Hennu set the drum down between her feet and clasped her hands before her.

  “Citizens! Greetings and G-d bless.” Her voice rang out loud and clear. “You have answered my call; now stay and listen.” She paused and glanced at the marabi at her elbow. Elder Dessin nodded. She continued. “First, I bid you: do not panic. We have everything under control. The elders are working on a solution to our problem. I trust them with my life, as should you.

  “Rumors have been flying that monsters are loose in our city. You might’ve heard some of these rumors. I’m here to tell you the truth: there are no monsters in our streets. There is, however, one—possibly two—jaan loose and unqu
ieted. But this is no reason for alarm. As long as you wear your charms and stay in groups, you will be safe.”

  She paused, riding out the surge of anxious grumbling from the crowd. When it was silent again, Drum Chief Hennu continued. “Aside from wearing your charms, I ask you to be especially vigilant for possible possessions. Ask your neighbor if she is sane. Ask yourself. If you suspect there is a jaani in your area, seek shelter first and alert the watchmen second. The marab will be keeping careful watch over us. Don’t be alarmed—even if you are possessed, the marab will be able to help you. All will be fine.”

  Hennu raised her hands again. “I will call you when the danger is past. In the meantime, remember: stay calm, stay vigilant, and stay sane. That is all. I thank you for your attention.”

  Drum Chief Hennu dropped her hand to her heart, and her slave took up the drum. He beat out a slower rhythm to release the calling. The crowd woke as if from a dream and broke apart. Amastan started to head back, but Barag didn’t move. He stared at the dais with a frown creasing his brow. When he caught Amastan watching, he shook his head.

  “Will you take Thana back with you? I have an errand to run. I won’t be gone long.”

  “Sure,” said Amastan.

  Barag barely seemed to hear him. He glanced around the emptying area, then looped his fingers through his belt and headed across the platform. Amastan watched him for a moment. Then he met Thana’s gaze and offered his hand, but she turned and started back home without waiting for him.

  The workspace seemed much quieter and emptier than earlier, even though only Barag was missing. Thana took up her spot next to the hearth and returned to messing with her stringwork, but she seemed distracted. She kept glancing toward the door.

  Amastan settled into his seat and looked from the work he still had left to do today to the basket of scrolls that comprised the family’s history. The faster he got the one done, the sooner he could turn to the other. With a sigh, he pulled the first scroll toward himself and began painstakingly transcribing it.

  The day wore on, but Barag didn’t return. Silence buzzed like a fly at Amastan’s ear. When the noon bell rang and Barag was still gone, Amastan set his finished work in its own basket and took up Barag’s.

  Evening settled with a creak and groan of cooling stone. Amastan wiped the ink off his pen and blinked tired eyes. Thana had lit the hearth and left a candle on his desk. He stared at the flickering flame. Barag would be appalled to find any fire source so close to his precious scrolls. Amastan rolled up his scrolls with extra care and cleaned each of his pens, but by the time he’d finished, Barag still hadn’t returned.

  Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Tamella all day, either.

  Thana had finished her stringwork and now sat next to a pile of mended sandals. She looked up as he stood, her expression no less serious than before. Then she returned her attention to the ripped leather and stabbed it with a thick needle.

  He stretched and considered the door. He didn’t feel comfortable leaving Thana alone, not when there were jaan on the loose. Not when he didn’t know when Barag would return. Thana seemed to sense his hesitation. She scooted over on her bench without looking up. Amastan joined her and they sat in silence together as the hearth crackled and spat. For once, he let himself think about nothing.

  The door slammed open. Amastan started and Thana jumped to her feet, a knife in her hand. Then she dropped the knife and it clattered, loud as a drum, to the ground.

  Tamella stood in the doorway. She swayed, eyes wide and skin ashen. She stepped inside and the door closed behind her. Blood covered her hands and smeared across her jaw, thick and dark as glasshouse mud. Panic tightened Amastan’s throat. Had the jaani possessed her? What could he even do if it had? She was stronger and faster than him. He didn’t stand a chance.

  “Are you sane?” he asked tentatively, afraid of the answer.

  Tamella ignored his question. When she spoke, her words were a bitter accusation.

  “He’s dead. Usem is dead.”

  16

  When Barag arrived, the madness in Tamella’s eyes had vanished. She sat catatonic near the hearth and clutched the cooling cup of tea Thana had brewed for her. Tamella hadn’t said anything else since she’d uttered her brother’s name. Her silence unnerved Amastan more than her sudden appearance and the blood on her hands.

  Upon seeing his wife, Barag said, “Merciful G-d,” and hurried to her. He grabbed her hands and, noticing the blood, turned them over. He checked her wrists and forearms next, pushing up the sleeves of her wrap until Tamella yanked her arms free.

  “I’m fine,” she snapped.

  Barag looked up from where he knelt on the ground before her. “Where’ve you been? I was looking all over for you. What happened?”

  Amastan quietly swung the kettle back over the hearth. His throat was knotted with shock and guilt. He’d never seen Tamella so shaken before, so raw.

  Tamella looked away, unable to meet Barag’s eyes. She clutched her arms close and said, “I found him.”

  Barag winced, as if he’d been hit. He reached for her, but changed his mind at the last moment and let his hands dangle between his knees instead. “Usem.”

  The cups rattled. Thana stood in front of them, her head tipped forward and her face obscured by braids. She had gone to get a second cup but now it appeared she couldn’t move. Her shoulders shook and her hands clenched at her sides and she emitted a small, choked noise.

  “Star of my sky,” said Barag softly. “Go upstairs. Please.”

  “Why?” asked Thana, not turning around. “I want to be here for this. I’m old enough. Usem—Usem was my uncle.”

  “That’s why you should go upstairs,” said Barag. “You don’t need to hear this. It will only upset you.”

  Thana whirled, anger sparking in her wet eyes. In that moment, she looked every bit her mother’s daughter. “I’m not a child!”

  “Thana.” Tamella’s voice was quiet, but dangerous. She lifted her head and Thana wilted under her stare. “Go upstairs.”

  Thana’s mouth snapped shut and her defiance left her all at once. She stood for a moment longer, then turned and left. For a few seconds, they all listened as she stomped up the stairs. A heartbeat later, a door slammed.

  Amastan held his breath. Would Tamella order him to leave as well? Maybe he should go before she did. This was a home to grief now, and he had no place in it. But he lingered, worry and confusion and a growing, unpleasant knowledge that he knew just what had happened churning in his gut.

  Tamella closed her eyes, took a deep breath. When she spoke again, her voice was empty, flat, and more unnerving than any time he’d seen her angry. “He didn’t tell me he had a contract.”

  There shouldn’t be any contracts, Menna had said, angry and confused outside the glasshouse. Amastan knew all at once what Tamella would say next. The sick feeling spread from his gut to his chest. He didn’t want to stay and listen. But he had to.

  “When I couldn’t find him anywhere usual, I asked around. His wife mentioned he’d been out a lot the last few days, that he’d been coming home late. She thought he could be having an affair. I knew better. I found Kaseem, asked him—he didn’t want to tell me anything, but…” She paused and Amastan imagined her unyielding anger wearing through even Kaseem’s stubborn streak.

  “I found the mark,” she continued after a brief silence. “Still alive. I searched the area. It took a while, but I found him.”

  This time when she paused, the silence stretched for several heartbeats. Neither Amastan nor Barag moved, each watching and waiting as Tamella swallowed air. When she spoke again, her voice was rough.

  “There was a room that had been gutted by fire not long ago. The windows were melted ruins, but someone had bothered to cover them with cloth. He’d been dumped inside and hidden beneath a pile of burnt garbage. If I hadn’t looked everywhere, no one would have found him for days, weeks even. He’d been … it’d been too long. I tried.” She
lifted her hands, the blood on them explaining more than words.

  The smears of blood across her knees, her hands, her face revealed every point of contact between Tamella and Usem’s body. Amastan could see her kneeling over her brother’s corpse, unwilling or unable to believe he was dead. Checking his pulse, then compressing his chest to try to get his heart started again. Shaking him, holding him, her face pressed against his.

  Barag grabbed Tamella’s hands and held them close. Tamella shuddered, but she didn’t break.

  “I hid his body well,” continued Tamella. “Then I came here.” Her head swung around and her gaze found and pierced Amastan. “Are three bodies enough for you, Amastan? Will you be able to find their killer now? Or should we wait for a fourth?”

  Amastan didn’t know what to say. Tamella was right. He should have found the killer by now. Usem’s death was on his hands.

  “You can’t be sure it was the same killer,” said Barag softly.

  “I can,” snapped Tamella. “A slash to the inner thigh. The body purposefully hidden. That isn’t a coincidence. It’s a pattern.”

  “His jaani?” asked Amastan, dreading the answer—but he had to ask.

  Tamella looked away, her jaw clenched. “Too long. I’ll go back tonight to retrieve the body.”

  “Oh Tam’.” Barag stood and enveloped her in a tight embrace.

  Amastan’s fingers went to his neck, but the reassuring soft leather of a charm pouch was missing. He let his hand drop, feeling exposed and ill. He wanted to go home and hide under the covers of his bed like he had as a child when the first storms rolled in, shouting thunder and throwing lightning.

  He had failed. He had failed Emet. He had failed Tamella. He had failed Usem. He had failed the family.

  Yet a piece of his mind continued to churn, picking incessantly at the problem like a vulture at a corpse. There shouldn’t have been any contracts. Pick. What did Yanniq have to do with two dead cousins? Pick. How could someone sneak up and overcome an assassin? Pick. What was the history between Tamella and Yanniq? Pick. How many more contracts were out there? Pick.