by K A Doore
“If you’re here for your baats, you’ll have to wait until the rains,” said Kaseem. “I’m afraid even I’m out for this season.”
“Sorry, sa, but that’s not why I’m here,” said Amastan. “May I come in?”
Kaseem looked him over, then disappeared into the gloom of his home, leaving the curtain pulled aside. Amastan took that for a yes and entered.
The room was largely unchanged from his last visit. Kaseem waited next to the hearth, leaning on his cane. Amastan joined him, his thigh protesting more now than last night. But Amastan refused to limp.
“I have a simple question, sa,” said Amastan carefully, picking a spot near the middle of the room to stand.
“Then ask it and be gone. You’re interrupting my evening tea.”
Amastan glanced toward the cool hearth, which held nothing but ash. The kettle hung above it, for all the good that would do. He decided it was better not to say anything.
“Twelve years ago, the drum chiefs put a halt to the contract system. When did it start again?”
“Recently, as I’m sure you’ve figured out already,” said Kaseem. He placed both hands on top of his cane and peered at Amastan with those watery eyes. “How did your contract go? I heard it was successful—the mark’s funeral was today. But usually I hear about this success from you.”
“We’ve been busy, sa,” said Amastan. But then he saw no way around it. “It was a trap. Like we’d expected. The killer was there. I was with the healers for several days. Then there was a jaani and work and—I’ve only been able to come see you now.”
Kaseem rotated the cane beneath his palm, but his gaze remained fixed on Amastan. “Somehow I don’t think you’re about to tell me that you caught this killer.”
Amastan winced and shook his head. “No, sa. Even though we were prepared, he still caught us by surprise. But he wasn’t ready for two of us. I doubt he’ll use your contracts again, now that we’ve figured out his scheme.”
“Which is good for me, but bad for you,” said Kaseem. “Now how will you capture him?”
“That’s why I’m here today,” said Amastan.
“Not so good for me, then.” Kaseem sighed and took a seat next to the hearth, folding in on himself like a thick sheet.
“Please, sa—” began Amastan, but Kaseem waved him to silence.
“You needn’t beg. I’ll answer your questions.” He raised a finger. “Within reason. You’ve already done me a service by exposing a flaw in my system and excising it. I’ll take the appropriate steps to patch it, I owe you that much. As an untested assassin, you have performed well. So yes, the contracts started recently. Within a month, if my memory still serves me—and it does. And yes, there’ve only been the three, which came quite close together. Perhaps I should have been more suspicious, but a decade had passed and clearly there was want for your family’s services.”
Amastan swallowed the urge to point out that two men had died because Kaseem hadn’t been suspicious. Instead, he asked the question he was there for. “The contracts were halted by the drum chiefs. So how did they start again, sa?”
“By the drum chiefs,” answered Kaseem.
“How?” pressed Amastan. “Did they call you before them? Did they come to you? How did you know the ban had been lifted?”
Kaseem thumped his cane on the floor and scowled. “Nothing so obvious. The drum chiefs would never allow themselves to be seen with or near me, even if they knew who I was. No, my network brought me notice from the last Circle that our activities would be ignored again.”
“Notice? Like a letter?”
“Yes, a letter,” said Kaseem, annoyed. “What else would you expect? A singing mule?”
“How could you be certain it was from the drum chiefs, sa?”
“Saying ‘sa’ doesn’t make that question less insulting.”
“It’s still an important question.”
Kaseem snorted, then used his cane to leverage himself up. He went to the table and lifted the top, revealing a hidden compartment within. He slipped out a small, rolled scroll and shut the table, his fingers briefly moving beneath it. He was too quick for Amastan to catch a glimpse of what was inside.
He untied the scroll’s string and flicked the scroll open. He scanned its contents, then held the piece of thin papyrus out to Amastan, who took it with great care. The scroll held only one line, beneath which was a black wax seal.
By order of the Circle and by G-d’s will, the ban restricting and limiting contracts of a necessary nature is no longer in effect.
The words were written in a standard, boxy script, the kind perfected by scribes throughout Ghadid. It could have been written by anyone, even Amastan. The seal bore more information, if not much. It was the official seal of the position of drum chief—an intricately carved drum with a circle around it—and nothing more. Each drum chief had two seals: one for their position, which was identical for every drum chief, and one for their particular neighborhood.
But the wax bore only the one seal.
It made sense. If the order came from the Circle as a whole, then there was no need for a neighborhood seal, because the order would apply to all of Ghadid. Still, Amastan was disappointed. He’d hoped that whichever drum chief had fabricated this order would have slipped up and put their own seal on it. He’d wanted to see the seal for Seraf on that slip of fragile paper, because then he’d know for certain that Drum Chief Hennu was behind the murders.
Instead, it could’ve been any of the twelve drum chiefs. Or none at all, if this order was real. His suspicion was only that—a suspicion.
“Are you satisfied?” asked Kaseem, holding out his hand for the paper.
Amastan wanted to stomp his feet in frustration like Menna. Instead, he settled on gritting his teeth. He started to hand the paper back to Kaseem, but another idea crossed his mind. He jerked his hand back before Kaseem could grasp the order and rubbed his thumb across the seal.
Twelve identical seals. But they couldn’t be perfectly identical, could they? There had to be differences, even slight. If he could find the exact seal that had been used on this order, he’d have his answer.
“Can I borrow this, sa?”
Kaseem frowned, his hand still extended. “I’m not sure I can do that.”
“Just for a few days,” said Amastan. “Then I’ll bring it back. But let me see if I can find its match, sa.”
“Need I point out that there’re twelve possible matches?” asked Kaseem. “Need I also point out that you’re treading a very fine line if you use that order to condemn a drum chief?”
“I’m aware, sa,” said Amastan.
Kaseem hesitated a moment longer, his eyes examining Amastan anew. Then his hand dropped, and with it his shoulders. “I’ll leave it in G-d’s hands, then—you have until season’s end.”
23
The drum chief’s order burned in Amastan’s pocket as he wove through the streets toward home. He hardly noticed the crowd blowing past him as he walked, head down, thoughts too loud. Unless someone had stolen or forged the seal, a drum chief had lifted the ban. Now he just needed to know which one.
Hennu ma Saman, now Drum Chief Hennu, had more than enough reason to want revenge against both Drum Chief Yanniq and the family.
But. Yet. And.
But—it had been over a decade. Why now? What had changed?
Yet—the killer couldn’t have been Hennu herself. Amastan knew her height and build and it didn’t match that of the figure on the rooftop.
And—the killer moved with a precision and grace that could only have come from years of training. The kind of training he and his cousins had received.
But—the killer had the kind of knowledge only those fully trained as assassins had. Why else would the contracts have specified only one cousin? How else could the killer have taken Usem and Emet by surprise?
Yet—if the killer had been a cousin, surely Tamella would have known.
And—a cousin wouldn’
t have killed other cousins. A cousin wouldn’t have let jaan go wild.
But—if the killer had been trained as a cousin, that didn’t guarantee they would pass their test and become one. You wouldn’t be the first to leave the family.…
Yet—
“Asaf!”
Amastan started, realizing all at once that that hadn’t been the first time someone had shouted his assumed name in the past few minutes. His path home from Kaseem’s had brought him through the Aeser neighborhood. By choice or by chance? He didn’t know for sure. He turned just as a hand found his shoulder. Yufit stood there, sweat glistening faintly above his eyebrows. He was breathing in quick little bursts, as if he’d just been running.
“I’ve been calling to you since the last platform,” said Yufit. He dropped his hand from Amastan’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” Then worry flashed across his eyes. “Are you sane?”
“I am,” said Amastan. “Both. Sane and okay. I mean, I’m fine.” His ears only burned hotter as he stumbled over his words. He felt vaguely queasy, as if he’d eaten too many fermented fruit.
Yufit’s worry dispersed, replaced by relief. “Oh thank G-d. I’ll live a calmer life when your marabi friend quiets the jaani. I’ve been trying to find you because I wanted to ask: have you had a chance to talk to her? Has she said anything else?”
“I haven’t seen her since last night.”
A frown briefly creased Yufit’s eyebrows. “She’s fine. She can handle herself.”
“Right.”
Amastan resisted the urge to reach up and pat Yufit’s shoulder reassuringly. Yufit shifted from foot to foot, darting glances up and down the street. Night spread through the city and watchmen chased it, lighting torches along the main roads. Amastan knew what Yufit was looking for. He’d been looking for it, too—that telltale swirl of red. But whatever Menna had done last night—only last night?—had forced the jaani away.
Of course, there were still two more. But Yufit didn’t need to know that.
“I think we’re safe,” said Amastan.
Yufit didn’t relax. His hand touched his neck, found the charm there, and dropped again. “Will it happen again? We know nothing about this jaani. If it attacks someone else…”
Megar’s crumbling face, eyes burning too bright—Amastan shut his eyes, as if he could rid himself of the image that easily. A hand slipped into his and Amastan opened his eyes to see Yufit; too close. Too earnest.
“Are you busy?”
Amastan shook his head: a lie. But also a partial truth. There wasn’t much he could do right now, not until he’d had some time to think. To plan.
He also needed a break.
“Walk with me,” said Yufit.
His hand was warm, his grip strong. Yet Amastan knew Yufit would let him go if he tried. Amastan didn’t try.
It felt easier to just be with Yufit this time, as if something had changed. Maybe it had. Yufit certainly seemed different after last night. Watching Megar die had clearly rattled him. And for once, Amastan didn’t feel the pressing need to find out more about Yanniq. He had his answers. He didn’t need to spend time with Yufit. Instead, he wanted to.
The night settled around them as they walked. More and more people peppered the street as the day’s heat faded to a background warmth. Stars sprinkled the darkening sky, but so did clouds, softly glowing with the city’s light. There were only a few of them, but their presence energized the crowd. Amastan overheard more than one conversation about when, exactly, the season would end. His back was sticky with sweat that refused to immediately evaporate.
“How much longer do you think it’ll be?” asked Yufit.
“Until what?” Until the next murder, until the next jaani, until the drum chiefs demand an answer, until—until—until—
“Until the rains.”
“Oh.” Amastan mentally shook himself. He needed to stay here, now. But he wasn’t sure he had the luxury of time. “Maybe a week?”
“I’d say a few days, at most,” said Yufit. He tilted his head back, sniffing the wind. “The storms this year will be amazing,” he added, sounding wistful. He squeezed Amastan’s hand. “Promise you’ll enjoy it for me.”
Amastan blinked, confused at the odd request. “The celebrations will be pretty big, at least, since season has gone on for so long.”
“Drum Chief Eken’s going to throw a party,” said Yufit. “But then, he does that every year. Maybe I’ll go this year. If I do, you should come, too.”
“Eken doesn’t usually invite people like me to his parties.”
“He will this time,” said Yufit. “I’ll make sure of it. You should have fun for once.”
“I have fun,” protested Amastan.
Yufit laughed. “You wouldn’t know fun if it bit your nose. You’re always so serious.”
“Am not.”
Yufit let go of his hand and poked him in the chest. “Prove me wrong. What should we do tonight?”
Amastan frowned. “I … well, I was just on my way home.…”
“Exactly.”
They had come to a bridge, but Yufit stopped short of it. Instead, he turned toward the nearest alley and gestured to Amastan. “Come on.”
Yufit led him down the alley and around the corner, where he pulled out a barrel and shoved it against the brick wall. He climbed onto it and offered his hand to Amastan. The barrel was barely big enough for the both of them, but they huddled close as Yufit ran his hand along the wall.
“This is going to be a bit of a climb,” said Yufit apologetically. “But I’ll help you up.”
Amastan bit his tongue and swallowed his remark. Instead he watched Yufit find the handholds that he’d already picked out, then begin climbing. This building was just over a story tall and so Yufit didn’t have far to go. When he reached the top, Amastan took his offered hand and let Yufit help him climb. When his thigh started to throb, he was thankful for the help.
The roof wasn’t much to look at. Why had Yufit brought him here? Then Yufit pointed to the next building: a multistory glasshouse rose from the roof, its blue-tinted glass transforming its contents into vague shadows.
Yufit led Amastan across a board between the buildings, then up to the glasshouse itself, which seemed to hum as it let off the accumulated heat of the day. Flaps fluttered on the sides, letting out too-hot air while keeping in what precious moisture remained at this time of year.
Yufit approached with confidence, although the door must be locked. Even when all the plants were dead or dormant for want of water, the glasshouse keepers still had to safeguard their soil. Good soil was difficult to maintain and expensive to buy and vital to have when the rains arrived. Caravans brought bags of soil to trade, but since they didn’t travel at the end of season, good soil was scarce when it was needed most.
So Amastan wasn’t surprised when the door refused to budge. But he was surprised when Yufit fished out two thin pieces of metal and began messing with the lock. In another moment, it had clicked and the door opened, if only by a few inches.
Yufit replaced his lock picks and grinned at Amastan. “I don’t show off that trick to just anyone.”
He pushed the door open farther and gestured for Amastan to go ahead. Amastan stepped into the relative darkness of the glasshouse, a flicker of unease unfurling in his chest. For a moment, he was back in another glasshouse, blood smeared on the ground and a body in front of him. But this glasshouse was clean, immaculate even, without a drop of blood in sight. The beds ran on either side of him at waist level, filled with nothing but coarse dark soil. A hint of moisture suffused the air, just enough to fill the glasshouse with the heady scent of loam.
“Go on.”
Amastan had stopped halfway down the path, but now he noticed the ladder at the end of the row, leading to the next story. Most of Ghadid’s numerous glasshouses were one story, owing to the weight of the glass and the plants’ hunger for light. Over the years, a few keepers had experimented with taller structures and eve
n fewer had succeeded. This had been one of them.
The metal ladder was still hot, but not painfully so. Likewise, the crisscrossing metal that made up the second floor warmed his feet, even through his sandals. More dirt lined the walk up here, but these beds were shallower. Tall glass rods stuck out of the dirt at regular intervals, string tied taut between them. Old vines and dried leaves still curled around some of the strings, dormant for now.
The glass roof was so close Amastan could touch it, if he just reached up. Condensation fogged the glass, turning the sky and its spread of stars beyond into an indistinguishable smear of pale light. At the end of the row was another door. Amastan moved forward, drawn to it.
The door was unlocked, but for good reason: it opened onto nothing. Not even a cousin could climb sheer glass. Another ladder hung off the roof of the glasshouse, its bottom rung just within grasp. With Yufit silent behind him, Amastan reached and grabbed and began to climb.
The glasshouse roof was sloped, but not precariously so. Someone’d had the foresight to put sand in the glass before it had cooled, giving it a non-slick surface. At the roof’s far end sat a thick roll of shade cloth, ready and waiting for the end of season. Amastan walked carefully across the roof, testing each step before he committed, in case the glass was in any way compromised. But it held and within moments he stood in the center of the roof, gazing out across the city.
He realized then why Yufit had brought him here. This was easily the highest point in Ghadid. The city spiraled away all around them. They were close to Ghadid’s center, so all Amastan could see were buildings and platforms and neighborhoods. The sands were tucked safely out of sight. From here, Amastan could imagine Ghadid went on forever.
“This is the other place I like to go.” Yufit’s voice came from directly behind him. “When season ends, you can watch the first storms roll in from here. They’re visible even while they’re still hours away. And at night, the clouds are lit up inside with lightning. It’s a spectacular sight.” He paused for a beat, then added, “I’d watch it with you if I could.”