by K A Doore
Amastan turned to Yufit and was surprised by the wistful look in his eyes, the narrow swath of his features lit from beneath by the city’s warm glow. The wistfulness was immediately replaced by a sly smile.
“Or I could teach you how to pick locks and you could come up here yourself.”
“Where did you learn to do that?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised what you pick up from hanging around servants,” said Yufit, still smiling.
Servants. A distant part of Amastan noted that Yufit didn’t include himself as part of them. But Amastan brushed it away. Yufit was a scribe. He probably thought himself above servants.
Yufit looked out over the city. “Do you know the neighborhoods?”
By heart, Amastan wanted to say, but he shook his head instead. “Not well enough to tell you which platform belongs where.”
Yufit pointed. “That’s Seraf there, where the blue light is.” He turned. “And that’s Telem, just beyond it. Telem’s darker than the others because Drum Chief Yugten doesn’t bother replacing torches. He thinks no one should be out at night in the first place—it’s ‘amoral.’ So his people go to the other neighborhoods for markets instead. But his allocation is fair, so he gets to stay.”
“You know a lot about the city.”
“I worked with other drum chiefs before Yanniq.” Yufit stared for several heartbeats out at the city, silent and still. When he shifted his weight and turned toward Amastan, his steel-cold eyes no longer held a smile. “Look, Asaf … I’m not any good at this. But I’ve enjoyed spending time with you. I’ve never really done that with anyone before. I didn’t think I had the time, but you’ve made me see otherwise. You’ve also given me a run for my money as the most serious person in Ghadid.” He snorted a laugh, then let out a whoosh of air and clasped his hands behind his back. “But you’re more than that. You make me laugh. You listen. For once, I feel heard.”
Amastan forced himself to meet Yufit’s eyes, even though his heart was beating much too fast and his palms had become inexplicably sweaty. Guilt lay beneath the rising tide of breathlessness, tied to the repeating thought: I’m not Asaf.
He wanted to say it. He needed to say it. There was no reason to hide behind that assumed name any longer. He’d gotten what information he needed from Yufit, he knew—or at least seriously suspected—that Hennu was behind the murders. In another day or two he’d be able to prove his suspicions and stop the killer. He no longer had a pretense to keep seeing Yufit.
No pretense except—
“I have something I need to do,” continued Yufit. “It’s important. I don’t know how long it will take and I don’t know if I’ll see you again. It’s…” He paused and Amastan heard him lick his lips, “dangerous.” He laughed softly and shook his head. “That word doesn’t seem adequate. But I had to see you again. To tell you: I’m glad I met you, Asaf.”
I’m not Asaf. But the words stuck in his throat like day-old bread. Instead, he said, “It’s not the jaani, is it? We just have to wait for season’s end.”
“It’s not the jaani.” Yufit gave another soft laugh. “I know you and your friend—Menna?—will take care of that particular threat. No, it’s something that’s been around a lot longer than the jaani, something I’ve been working toward for as long as I can remember. I’d call it my destiny, if I believed in such a thing. If I pull it off, the city will be safer. You’ll be safer. We’ll all be safer. But it’s risky and sometimes I don’t even want to think about it. Days I’ve wondered if it’s even worth it. But then I met you, Asaf, and I realized I wasn’t just protecting Ghadid. I was protecting you.”
Yufit fully turned toward Amastan and the distance between them became insignificant. Amastan could smell the anise on Yufit’s breath, could see the slight flutter of his tagel as he breathed in and out.
“It’s only fair,” continued Yufit. “You saved me. Now I’ll save you.”
“But what’re you saving me from?” asked Amastan, worry vying with dread.
Yufit reached out, strong fingers curling back as he hesitated, not quite touching Amastan. “It’s better if you don’t know.”
He started to drop his hand, but Amastan caught it in his own. For a moment, he held it there, suspended in the air. He hadn’t thought any further than that. He hadn’t thought at all. And he continued not to think as he brought Yufit’s hand to his cheek, guiding those fingers up beneath his tagel.
They stayed like that, an arm’s width apart, for another heartbeat. For the first time in days—weeks—the constant swirl of Amastan’s thoughts had slowed, quieted. He was only aware of the hand against his skin and Yufit, standing stock-still in front of him.
Then Yufit moved. His free hand went to his own tagel and his fingers found the knots. Undid one. The bottom of his tagel fell away, revealing a cheek, a nose, lips. Amastan stared into a face that he’d only imagined before and, even though it didn’t quite meet up with his mental image, it still fit those steel-cold eyes perfectly.
A hundred warning drums boomed in his head like cracks of thunder as he reached up and undid a knot on his tagel. He shouldn’t do this. Tamella wouldn’t just chastise him if she found out, she’d skin him and tan his hide and use the leather for sandals. Yufit didn’t even know his real name.
Then I’ll tell him.
Amastan’s tagel fell and his face felt strange, bare. His cheeks and ears warmed, but Amastan didn’t turn his gaze away.
Tell him.
“I’m not—”
But Yufit stepped close and cut him off with a kiss.
24
Clouds lined the horizon, thick as foam. Season’s end was here.
They hung on through the morning. Both Amastan and Barag took turns peering out the door and checking on the clouds throughout the day. Despite the despair that clung to him like webbing, Amastan couldn’t help but be heartened by the excitement that pulsed through the city. Heat that normally wilted even the most stubborn grandfather couldn’t keep the streets clear today.
In the afternoon, the clouds bubbled and boiled. Far out past the horizon, past sight, stood the mountains that caught the moisture in the air and baked it into clouds. Most of the moisture would linger over the mountains, raining for days and weeks and filling the vast underground aquifer that fed Ghadid from afar. But at the end of season, when the wind and the moisture and the heat aligned, the clouds boiled over and spilled across the sands, coming for Ghadid.
If not tonight, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, the day after. If not the day after, soon. Very soon.
Amastan was running out of time.
But when he dropped the last scroll into its basket, done with the bare minimum for the day, his thoughts weren’t strictly on his task. They dipped instead into the night before and he felt again the warm brush of Yufit’s lips, the heat of his breath, the press of his fingers. The moment had only lasted seconds, but it held the weight of days. Yufit had left without another word and Amastan had lingered, hesitant to return to a world where that moment wasn’t the most important thing.
Now, as quickly as he delved into the memory, he returned. Focus, he reminded himself as worry twisted through him along familiar paths. He glanced up, but Barag was still busy with his own work. Holding his breath, he retrieved the scrap of paper Kaseem had given him from his wrap and spread it out on the table. He scrutinized the seal for the tenth or twelfth time, but it gave up no new secrets. He needed to find the original.
“What’s that?”
Amastan started, tried to cover the scrap with his hand, then gave up. Thana peered over his shoulder, lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes scanned the words and then her nostrils flared and her breath hitched as she registered what it meant.
She looked up. “Does Tamella know about this?”
Amastan started to nod, then stopped. Did she? She knew her brother had been on a contract, but beyond that, she didn’t know the ban had been officially lifted. Didn’t know about Hennu or any of the rest
of it. Which was probably for the best. If Tamella thought Hennu was behind Usem’s death, she might go after the drum chief herself. Amastan wouldn’t blame her, but the rest of the drum chiefs would. She’d scraped by with a pardon once when the city had been at stake. That wouldn’t happen again. This time, the family needed to act within the law or risk being disbanded permanently.
“Don’t tell her,” said Amastan.
Thana’s expression was as inscrutable as if she’d been wearing a tagel. But she nodded. “What does it mean?”
“That’s what I’m trying to puzzle out.”
“Oh.”
She dropped her gaze back to the piece of paper. Amastan studied her. She looked so much like her mother. Even her hair had been divided into several thick braids. But instead of tied back into a knot, they hung heavy around her face, sharpening her cheeks even further.
Like her mother. He couldn’t tell Tamella, but maybe—
“I need to match this to its seal.” He tapped the wax indentation. “How would you do that?”
Thana tossed one of her braids over her shoulder. She touched the seal with the tips of her fingers. “You need the original seal. Who has it?”
“I’m not sure,” said Amastan.
Thana’s gaze sharpened. “Who do you think has it?” When Amastan didn’t respond, she pulled back from the table. “It’s so simple, Amastan. You already know what you need to do. Why’re you asking me?”
Amastan blinked, started a reply, then stopped. It was true. He did know what he needed to do. He’d just wanted someone else to confirm it. The last time he’d stolen into someone’s home, it’d gone so disastrously wrong. He was afraid of messing up again.
The door opened, interrupting his thoughts. A woman entered, her wrap the undyed cream of mourning: Rema, Usem’s widow. Without a word, Thana slipped from Amastan’s table and crossed to her.
“G-d bless,” greeted Rema.
Barag pushed back from his table and stood. “How’re you doing?”
Rema’s gaze flicked down, not meeting Barag’s. “Well enough.”
Barag nodded. “You’ll have her back by sunset?”
“Of course,” said Rema. “It shouldn’t take too long to find a wedding gift for her cousin.” She leveled her gaze at Barag. “But girls her age also need time out of the house.”
Barag waved a hand. “I’m all right with that. Just have her back before dark, unless you want to risk her mother’s anger.”
This elicited a quirk of Rema’s lips. “I wouldn’t dare.”
Thana crossed her arms. “I’m not a child—don’t talk about me like I’m not here.”
“Is that the wind?” teased Barag, looking around the room. “I swear I heard someone just now.”
Thana sighed, rolled her eyes, and pushed the door open. She disappeared into the afternoon sun. The other side of Rema’s lips quirked up, but her smile vanished almost as soon as it had come. “It shouldn’t take long.”
She bowed her head, then followed Thana outside. The door closed, leaving Amastan a little nearer to his answer. He pulled a spare scrap of vellum close and began to write, sketching out the beginnings of a plan. He worked best when he could sound off against someone, but Menna was working with Elder Dessin today to finalize their modified quieting ritual. The storms would be here any day now and they needed to be ready for them.
For a while, the only sound in the room was the scratch of pens on skin and the occasional rustle of a scroll. Amastan lost track of time as he tried to consider his problem from every angle. He needed Hennu’s ring. It became increasingly clear to him that the only way he would get it in time was by breaking into her room. To do that—safely and properly—he needed to know more about Hennu. But he didn’t have the time for surveillance. He needed another way to get that information.
Maybe …
He stood and stretched and approached the shelves of scrolls. The record of deaths wouldn’t be of any use here; she wasn’t dead, not yet. Neither would the Circle records. But certain details of the drum chiefs’ lives were made public by necessity. Their wealth, their debts, their influences. Their husbands and wives. Their children. Any of that might give him more insight into the woman herself.
Here, a thick scroll of fine vellum, its edges embossed with gold. He unrolled it slowly, his fingers gripping the edges tight. When he’d fully unrolled it, he realized it was several sheets instead of a single one. Thick black ink unfurled across the first sheet, but just beneath he traced the indistinct echoes of old words, long since scraped away. This record was in constant flux, scraped clean and rewritten as the drum chiefs and their lives changed.
He found Hennu on the third sheet, the ink of her entry sharper than the ones above and below. From scanning the other entries, he’d already lowered and lowered again his expectations. The number of slaves in her household wouldn’t tell him anything useful, not when all of the drum chiefs owned a similar number of the lowest class, and neither would the age of her drum. But he read her entry anyway, hopeful despite himself. And then his breath caught.
The last line listed the names of Saman’s children with Anaz, three in all. Names Amastan didn’t recognize. After those three came one more, Hennu’s only child. But Amastan couldn’t read it: the name had been scratched out with midnight-black ink.
The door opened and closed. Amastan rerolled the scrolls and slid them back into their place on the shelf, thoughts thrumming. It could mean nothing. It could mean everything. He turned just as Menna reached his desk. She wore her marabi wrap, gray as stone, and a wide smile. She held up a thin, bone-white scroll.
“Guess what I have,” she sang.
Amastan crossed his arms and looked at her, waiting. Menna laughed, then dropped the scroll on his desk. Amastan settled back into his chair and picked up the scroll. He unrolled it and stared at the looping letters curling around a sketch. It took him a moment to parse what he was seeing: the letters formed several prayers and the sketch appeared to be a diagram of connected circles.
“It’s a seal.” Menna leaned farther over the desk and pointed to the center. “Once the jaan go in, they can’t come out. Then all we have to do is set the prayers and wait for the rain.”
“And this will quiet the jaan?”
Menna’s smile dissipated. “No,” she admitted. “It’ll bind them to the sand. Elder Dessin thinks they’re too strong to quiet. The binding will hold them for long enough. He hopes that in seven years, he’ll be able to perform the crossing ceremony and finally put them at rest. It’s not ideal, but it’ll stop the jaan from hurting anyone else.”
Amastan nodded even as he felt sick. He didn’t want to go down to the sands and confront the jaan, let alone in the middle of a storm. But Menna was right. They couldn’t let anyone else die.
“When?” he asked.
“First storm,” said Menna. “Everyone thinks that’ll be tonight or tomorrow, so you better be ready. Let your friend know, too. We might need him to draw the jaan.”
“The seal won’t do that?”
Menna shrugged. “It should. But we can’t take any chances. This’ll be our best and maybe only chance.”
“Okay. I’ll find him.” Amastan couldn’t help but feel a little glad for an excuse to talk to Yufit again, even though he needed to spend the rest of his evening on Hennu’s ring. After all, he also only had until the first storm to match the seal and deliver Hennu to the drum chiefs. Yufit could wait.
“Y’know,” said Menna, sliding into the chair across from him. “Things might just be okay.”
A bubble of hope rose inside Amastan. “Do you have a way to find the killer?”
Menna blinked. “What? Oh—no. Not yet, but I’m sure you’ll think of something.” She patted the table reassuringly and the bubble popped. “I just meant, not having contracts. I have to admit, I resented the wild jaan at first because I’d always dragged my feet about being a marabi and the jaani made me focus on it. But I’ve discovered I a
ctually kind of like it. At least, the jaan part. You saw me quiet that jaani. That was amazing. I was amazing. That’s what I want to be doing, not overseeing funerals or living in stale crypts. And, to be honest, that contract we worked on together? A little too dull.” She straightened in her seat. “Anyway, Elder Dessin agreed. He wants me to research and develop new rituals to quiet wild jaan. I actually came up with most of this.” She tapped her finger against the scroll.
Amastan’s stomach dropped. “So it’s completely untested?”
“You have so little faith in me,” said Menna. “Of course it’s untested, but the principles are sound. We don’t need to test it. It’ll work, ’Stan. Trust me.”
Amastan swallowed. Technically, Menna had never broken his trust, even if she’d sometimes bent it. And she had the help of the elders. “Okay.”
Menna watched him expectantly. Amastan sighed. “What?”
“Aren’t you going? I thought you left at evening bell.”
Amastan frowned; he hadn’t heard the bell yet. But it was possible he’d missed it as he worked. The light was thin enough for evening. Just how long had he been sitting here, scribbling on this piece of vellum?
As if in answer, the evening bells began to ring, first farther off, then in their own neighborhood. Amastan carefully rolled up the vellum he’d been writing on and tied it with a scrap of string. As he gathered his things, the door opened and the last peal struck the room like thunder. Rema stood in the doorway, framed by the fading light. Although Amastan couldn’t see her face, he knew something was wrong. Menna stiffened next to him.
Rema was shaking. Her wrap was smudged with dirt and dust all the way up one side. As if she’d fallen, or been lying on the ground. Her hands were dirty, too, and one of them was curled around a scrap of white. Barag skirted his desk, closing the distance between them with quick strides.