by K A Doore
“But Saman…”
Some of the rage left Tamella and she sat back on her heels. “Drum Chief Saman was one of many people caught up in the conspiracy and not the only one to die. Besides, that was over a decade ago. Hennu was in the generation before me.” Tamella shook her head. “She could’ve killed Yanniq, but she’s too old to have bested Usem or Emet. Clearly she taught her son a few things, but do you really expect me to have known, or even thought, she’d do this? Family doesn’t hurt family.”
“You killed Saman.”
“Saman wasn’t family,” said Tamella, voice sharp. “Saman was a traitor. If Hennu was a true cousin, she would’ve accepted that and moved on.”
“She didn’t.”
“No.” Tamella briefly closed her eyes. The moon picked out the silver in her hair and dug deep pits beneath her eyes, aging her by decades. “She didn’t.”
Tamella rose slowly, her sword limp at her side. “You should leave. I’ll give you this chance to find Yufit and expose Hennu. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s wrong for me to repeat my mistakes.” Her gaze sharpened and her lips thinned. “But if you fail to bring them to justice or if Thana doesn’t return from the healers, then I’ll do it my way.” She sheathed her sword. “And I’ll make sure you suffer the consequences.”
* * *
Menna found Amastan hunched over a cup of cold and bitter tea next to an empty hearth. She dropped a few pillows next to him and took a seat. Amastan acknowledged her with a nod. He drank the tea slowly, savoring every sip. It was the last of his water. He was out of baats and time. If season didn’t end tonight, he’d be in trouble.
He was already in trouble.
After a few moments, Menna cleared her throat. “Thana’s all right. We had enough water to stop the poison. She’ll need to rest for a few days, but no lasting damage.”
Amastan closed his eyes and felt some of the tension he’d been holding release. “Thank G-d.”
“Indeed,” said Menna. Then her calm cracked. “What were you thinking? Tamella has promised to have your head if you don’t deliver Yufit. I can’t believe you fought her. For a murderer.”
“She was going to kill him,” said Amastan.
Menna threw up her hands. “You should have let her! I’m astounded she didn’t kill you.”
“She didn’t have a contract.”
“For all that’s holy and whole, ’Stan, that man killed her brother. She doesn’t need a contract.”
Amastan shook his head. “It still would’ve been murder. The drum chiefs—”
“The drum chiefs would never have known,” said Menna. “Tamella would’ve made it look like he fell off the roof or something.”
“No.” Amastan could still clearly see the murderous intent in Tamella’s eyes. “She wouldn’t have. She would’ve killed him first and decided what to do later, after it was too late. The drum chiefs wouldn’t have just punished her, Menna. They would’ve punished all of us. It would’ve been the end of the family.” He paused and added glumly, “It might still be.”
“There was a time when you would’ve welcomed the end of the family,” said Menna, a little too sharply.
“Not its end,” said Amastan. “The family has its place. We do things that are hard but necessary.” If Amastan closed his eyes, he knew he’d see white powder dissolving in a glass. None of you are innocent. He didn’t close his eyes. “But Yufit was right—there’s a line and we’ve crossed it in the past. I didn’t want to see Tamella cross it again.”
Menna pressed her palm against her forehead and breathed in deep through her nose. Then she let it all out in a sigh. “Fine. You are damn lucky to be alive. Tam’ must’ve been just as surprised as the rest of us. And, my G-d, Yufit. He was in my home. How many cousins had he murdered by then?”
Amastan had already done those calculations. “Two.”
Menna dropped her hands and looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since she’d arrived. “G-d, ’Stan, you’re a mess.”
Amastan had changed out of the shadow-colored wrap and into one that was clean, if bland and colorless, but he hadn’t bothered to wash the streaks of dust and dirt and sweat from his face and hands. He’d tied his tagel low, not wanting to deal with the stifling fabric tonight and assuming he’d only be around his sisters. He hadn’t bothered to adjust it when Menna arrived; she might as well be a sister.
“You really didn’t know,” said Menna quietly.
Amastan snorted, but didn’t bother replying.
Menna shook her head. “For all of your cleverness, you’re really stupid, you know? He was right there, the entire time, and you never once wondered who in the sands-blasted Wastes he was. What did you even know about him? Anything?”
“I knew he was Yanniq’s scribe,” said Amastan. “I just never thought…” He didn’t bother finishing his sentence. He hadn’t thought. He hadn’t even considered. Yufit had never lied to him because Amastan had never asked. He hadn’t wanted to ask.
But now that he stopped to think about it, he could see the bits and pieces that might’ve led him in the right direction had he only looked. Yufit’s disdain for Yanniq. The short time he’d spent in Yanniq’s household. His too-clean hands only days after he’d left. His easy use of baats, too easy for a servant. His self-confidence. His fluid grace. A name, scratched out.
A dozen small things that simply didn’t add up. A dozen small things that, when taken together, were more than suspicious. Even Megar’s insistence on accompanying him to speak with Yufit took on a new light. Had Megar suspected?
But Amastan hadn’t wanted to see.
“I know,” said Amastan, his voice hollow. “Did you only come here to berate me?”
Menna’s expression clouded with something else, something unexpected: sympathy. “I did, yeah. But I think I’m done with that. You spent so much time with that man and you really didn’t know. That seems like enough punishment to me.” She paused, shook her head again. Amastan wanted to reach out and stop her. That repetitive motion was beginning to annoy him.
“I was only teasing when I called you lovers, you know,” she continued in a softer tone. “But you cared about him, didn’t you?”
Amastan couldn’t look at her, so he opted for his hands instead. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Menna’s laugh was a light, musical sound, like a glass-caster’s beads hitting the bottom of a bucket. She leaned forward and took Amastan’s hand. “Oh, ’Stan. It never is.”
His cheeks and ears warmed. He turned the cup around and around in his other hand, even though it was empty. Menna let go of his hand after too long a moment and sat back, some of the mirth gone.
“I didn’t just come here to scold you.” She tugged at her belt and pulled free a large pouch. She dumped a ball of tinder into one hand and held it up. “We’re ready for the quieting ritual. Dessin and the elders are making the rest of these today. This is what we’re going to use to build the seal.”
Amastan set his cup down and took the object in his hands. It was a tightly rolled ball of dried plant fibers and camel dung. It smelled faintly of oil.
“There’s going to be fifty-seven of them,” said Menna. “And every single one of them has a scrap of prayer inside. We set it up according to that design I showed you, lure the jaan in, and poof”—Menna splayed her fingers—“light it. The prayers burn and, if we time it right, the rain turns the prayers to steam and we quiet the jaan.”
“How do we lure the jaan in?” asked Amastan.
Menna shifted in her pillow pile. “Well, they’ve come for you and Yufit before…”
Amastan lifted his eyebrows. “I’m your lure?”
“I’d’ve liked to have both of you down there, just in case, but seeing as how that’s not going to happen, it should still work with just you.”
“Okay.” Amastan held the tinder out and Menna took it back, tucking it into the pouch. Not for the first time, he wondered what had happened to Yufit
. If he’d made it to the healers. If he’d survived Tamella’s bite. He’d had enough strength to get off the roof while Amastan fought his cousins. He hoped that meant Yufit’d had enough strength to find a healer.
“It looks like season will end tonight,” said Menna. “That’s what all the stormsayers are claiming, anyway. Of course, anybody with one eye and a nose would say the same. Those clouds are close. They’ll break this afternoon and come our way.”
Amastan closed his eyes. “Season’s end,” he said, feeling a strange sort of relief. No matter what happened today and tonight, it would soon be over. He owed Kaseem, he owed the drum chiefs, he owed Tamella, and all those debts came due tonight. He couldn’t pay them all.
But at least he could pay one.
“What do you need from me?”
“I was hoping you’d ask,” said Menna, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “We could use an extra pair of hands.”
* * *
Dusk fell like dust, coating the world in a darkness that accumulated in one continuous, ever-thickening layer. The clouds hadn’t broken yet, but they were denser now, billowing and dark. They hunched on the horizon like a brooding crow, flashes of light briefly illuminating their depths. Soon, they would head toward Ghadid, filling the sands with wind and rain and thunder.
Season was finally at an end.
Tomorrow, the celebrations would begin. A weeklong period of festivity marked the return of rain and the refilling of the aquifers. Baats would be given out again, distributed by each drum chief to their neighborhood. The rationing would be lifted and healers would be able to do more than stabilize and stave off death. In another week, the glasshouses would fill with shoots of fresh green. It was a time worth celebrating.
Amastan didn’t feel like celebrating.
Fifty-seven balls of tinder waited in waterproof leather sacks next to a carriage a neighborhood over. Fifty-seven balls that had taken all day to assemble. First, he’d had to copy the quieting prayer onto a scrap of papyrus with the right kind of ink. Then, he’d had to fold camel dung around it. Another layer of plant fibers, which had been soaked in oil. And last, more dung. His fingernails had never been dirtier and the smell clung to him like a bad dream.
Each tinder ball had to be the right size and each had to be handled carefully lest it fall apart. A few marab had assisted him and Menna, but they’d only made a handful before some other duty called them away. All of the other marab were preoccupied with end-of-season preparations, but Menna had assured him that the fewer were involved, the less likely it was someone else would get hurt. He and Menna had been stuck with the bulk of the work, which had taken most of the day.
Even when he’d realized how tedious and time-consuming making each ball was, Amastan had still held out hope that he might have time at the end of the day to look for Yufit or find a match for the seal. Time to meet his other obligations. But that time had passed and so had any remaining hope.
He’d helped Menna carry the sacks full of tinder over to the nearest carriage and then she’d sent him home. To prepare and to rest. The stormsayers predicted rain by midnight. Amastan and Menna would have to go down to the sands an hour or two before to set up and lure the jaan. But until then, he could relax. Secure his windows against the storm. Pretend to enjoy the festivities.
Amastan opened the door to a hearth full of flames and a room full of laughter. His sisters sat with his uncle and father and aunts on the rugs and cushions, sharing tea. A few other familiar faces were there, cousins and neighbors, all joining in to celebrate the end of season.
“’Stan!” called Thiyya, waving him over. “Come join us. Have a cup and sit.”
Suddenly all Amastan wanted was the complete opposite: to be alone in his room with nothing but the quiet. He shook his head and kept on going toward the stairs.
“You might not have noticed, since you keep your nose in a stack of scrolls, but it’s season’s end,” teased Guraya.
Thiyya lifted a jar of wine. “Come on, loosen up!”
Amastan raised a hand as his only answer, then began climbing the stairs. Behind, Guraya sighed loudly, then said in a mock-whisper, “Poor ’Stan must be in love and wants to be alone with his thoughts. We’d better let him.”
If only she knew.
The second story was blissfully empty and silent. All Amastan wanted was to scrape the dirt and dung out from under his fingernails, peel off his sweaty wrap and tagel, and crawl into his bed and sleep until morning. He didn’t care if he missed the first thunder or the first rain. There was always next season. He just wanted this one to finally, finally be over.
But it wasn’t over, not yet, and Menna would be waiting for him in two hours. He’d have enough time to change, gather his things, and maybe close his eyes for a minute.
He opened the door to his room. Inside, all was dark and still. Welcoming. His fingers found the knots of his tagel and began undoing them as he walked to his bed. His sisters had thoughtfully left him a glass of water on his desk. He gulped one, two, three sips before he even tasted it. The elders had shared some of their water with him, but that had been hours ago and the sticky heat had leached him dry.
He set the glass down. A breeze circled the room like a snake from his open window.
His window shouldn’t have been open.
A knife met his throat.
“G-d’s greeting, Asaf,” said Yufit in his ear. “Or should I say: Amastan Basbowen.”
28
Amastan didn’t let himself think. He snapped his arm up, hand sliding between his chest and Yufit. He pushed Yufit’s arm away, hard, and the blade left his throat. Amastan twisted out of his grip and reach, a dagger already in hand. In another heartbeat, he faced Yufit, their weapons widening the distance between them even farther.
Lightning flickered through the window, briefly filling the room with cold, uncaring light. Yufit’s fingers tightened around his knife. Those same fingers had touched his face only two nights ago. The dissonance rang in Amastan’s head like a bell.
But Yufit was alive. His breathing, although strained, held none of the wet gurgle it had on the roof. He must have found a healer in time. Relief flashed through Amastan, quick as lightning.
Yufit’s gaze fell on him and filled with hate, which burned through Amastan’s brief relief. “You’re one of them. And I thought—I wanted … how much of it was a lie?”
“I’m not a server,” said Amastan. “And my name isn’t Asaf. That’s it. The rest—”
But Yufit wasn’t listening. “You used me. How long did you know? How long?”
“I didn’t know. Not until last night. I never suspected.”
“You’re lying.” Yufit’s hand was shaking, even as he pointed the tip of his knife at Amastan. “Here I’d thought you were so naïve and innocent, someone I could actually trust.” His laugh was brittle and broken. “And the entire time you were playing with me. I thought you cared. I was so stupid.”
“I did care.”
“Stop lying!”
Yufit struck, his blade aiming for Amastan’s eyes. Amastan deflected it with ease, then stepped forward into the opening Yufit had left and slammed the hilt of his blade against the side of Yufit’s head. Yufit let out a grunt as he stumbled away. He flailed with his knife, caught Amastan’s arm by chance. Amastan ignored the flash of pain, grabbed Yufit’s shoulders, and drove his knee into Yufit’s stomach.
Yufit folded, the wind knocked out of him. He gasped and Amastan heard a deep rattle; Yufit wasn’t so cured after all. It wouldn’t take much more to undo whatever healing he’d received.
But Amastan held back. He let Yufit catch his breath. Amastan’s knife dangled at his side and he felt only cold, empty. As if someone had hollowed out his chest and filled it with brittle glass. He told himself that he was lucky that Yufit had come to him. He knew that next, he had to bring Yufit to the watchmen, yet all he could do was watch Yufit straighten and stand. He wasn’t worried about Yufit getting away. Not t
his time.
“I could say the same about you,” said Amastan. “You murdered Yanniq and Emet and Usem. Worse—you let their jaan go wild. You committed blasphemy.”
Yufit met his gaze. The hatred Amastan had seen in Yufit on the roof came and went, there and gone again like a guttering candle. But when it was gone, disgust took its place. Amastan forced himself to watch.
“They deserved it,” said Yufit, voice falling flat, quiet. “And I never lied to you. Not once. You couldn’t even use your real name. What does that say about your intent?”
“I was hunting a killer.”
“As was I,” said Yufit with a sneer in his voice. “But I didn’t go around pretending I was someone else. Even though I was risking my life and ridding this city of its infestation. And for what—the Serpent’s still alive. How many more will she kill? How many more lives will she destroy?”
“None,” said Amastan. “She’s done with all that. The drum chiefs made her retire.”
“You saw her last night. She would’ve killed me.”
“You kidnapped her daughter. You pushed her to it. If I hadn’t—” Amastan cut himself off and shook his head.
“Yes.” Yufit’s voice was quieter now. “If you hadn’t. Why did you?”
“It wasn’t right. It’s not our role to decide justice.”
“Says the assassin.”
“I am an assassin, that’s true.” Amastan spread his hands. “But we’re not an infestation. We work for Ghadid. Look—on the night you tried to set me on fire, I killed a woman who had been stealing water.”
“I know who she was.” Yufit’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his knife, but some of the bite was gone from his voice.
“You knew about the contract.” Amastan nodded. “Then you knew that it was better for her to die by our hands than to face a public trial. Her family would’ve been ruined. We spared them that. But we didn’t decide justice. That had already been decided. We carried it out.” Amastan swallowed. “I carried it out.”