by K A Doore
Yufit closed his eyes. “You weren’t supposed to.” When he opened them again, they glistened. “You were too fast. I should’ve stopped you.”
“How did you know about the contract?”
Yufit laughed, but there was no mirth to the sound. “I found some who had grievances. I encouraged them to talk to the right person and ask the right questions. From there, it was only a matter of keeping an eye on the marks’ homes. Three a night became two a night became one. It wasn’t hard. Your kind are predictable. You haven’t changed at all since Hennu left. You watch. You wait. And you never expect someone else to be watching and waiting.”
“If I hadn’t killed her,” said Amastan, “she would’ve been tried publicly and her family would’ve suffered. Some justice is better done quietly.”
“Maybe,” admitted Yufit, turning the blade of his knife. “But that doesn’t mean the drum chiefs should allow assassins in our city.”
“We’re more than assassins, though,” said Amastan earnestly. “We protect Ghadid in ways the drum chiefs can’t. The contract system allows for justice when it would otherwise be impossible or unfair. The family has been around for centuries. I’m not saying it’s perfect—far from it. Tamella was wrong to kill Saman outside of a contract, but you were just as wrong to kill Yanniq in revenge.”
Yufit snorted. “I never pretended to be anything else by hiding behind a contract. You’re a perversion, nothing more than a den of vipers the drum chiefs’ve been too craven to eradicate.” Yufit widened his stance, his body tensing. “Yet even after your pit was uncovered, drum chiefs like Yanniq thought it was okay to let you keep terrorizing the city. Even though you’d already proven publicly that you had nothing but disdain for the law. You act like your will is G-d’s will. But you’re a tumor slowly strangling our city.” Yufit raised his blade. “And I’m the knife.”
Yufit led with his right foot, telegraphing his move. Amastan easily blocked his attack, turning away his knife. He twisted, and was ready to follow through and slam his elbow into Yufit’s face when pain blossomed in his gut as if he’d been punched. But Yufit was too far away. Amastan doubled over. The pain was gone as quickly as it had come, but it was too late. Yufit slammed the hilt of his knife into Amastan’s hand. Amastan dropped his dagger and Yufit kicked it away.
“Yanniq deserved what he got,” said Yufit, hate filling his voice, thick as venom. He loomed over Amastan, but he didn’t attack.
“And the others? You let their jaan go wild. Did they deserve that?”
Yufit touched the glass charms at his neck. Amastan’s charms.
“They did. And worse. They don’t deserve to have their jaan pass over. Better if they go mad instead and tear themselves apart.”
“And terrorize the city,” said Amastan. “And kill Megar. What crime did he commit that he deserved to die like that?”
The hatred in Yufit’s eyes faded, only to flare again. “His blood is on your hands. You never stay behind to deal with the consequences of your actions, and this was a consequence. You killed Saman, but you weren’t around for the consequences. Well, here they are.”
“Drum Chief Saman was a traitor,” said Amastan. “She would’ve torn apart Ghadid if she hadn’t been stopped.”
“Would she?” Yufit spun the knife between his fingers. “Was she? You mimic what your elders say, but you weren’t there. You aren’t G-d. You don’t know what happened.”
“Neither do you. You couldn’t have been more than a child—”
“I was old enough.” Yufit stopped fidgeting with the knife and clutched it tight. “You don’t know what they did to her. My mother was torn apart. She loved Saman. And you took that away from her as if it was your right. When you murdered Saman, you murdered my mother. You took her future away. What crime did she commit to earn that punishment? How can you call yourselves good and not consider the harm you inflict with your actions? You ruined her life and in turn you ruined mine. It’s only fair that I ruin yours.
“Every day Hennu takes up the drum, she’s reminded of what she lost,” continued Yufit, his voice lower now, almost a whisper. “When Drum Chief Anaz died, Saman took up his drum. When you murdered Saman, Hennu took her place, because none of Saman’s children were old enough. Now when Saman’s eldest reaches age, Hennu will step aside. She never wanted to be a drum chief. She’s only a drum chief because of what you did.”
Yufit stepped closer, the dim light from the window catching on his blade. Thunder rolled, still distant. The wind tasted of rain. Pain pulsed in Amastan’s stomach again, there and gone like a bad memory.
“What you do is wrong,” continued Yufit. “You ask how I can be so angry with something that happened long ago, but it has never felt longer than yesterday to me. I knew Saman. She treated me like a son. I didn’t understand what had happened when she died, but my mother helped me understand. It’s up to me to correct this wrong. She taught me everything I know and hid me from you.”
Amastan fidgeted with the edge of his wrap, riding out another stab of pain. It was beginning to worry him. He would need to end this, soon. But he wasn’t ready yet. Instead, he said, “This isn’t your fight, Yufit. She’s using you. You said so yourself—she trained you for revenge against us—her enemies. You’re her weapon. But she knew who we were, where we were. She could’ve come for us herself. As a drum chief she even had the power to call us out. Why didn’t she?”
“You answered your own question—she’s a drum chief. You would’ve seen her coming. You never expected me.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I’m sorry about your mother, I’m sorry about what she went through. But this”—Amastan gestured broadly—“this won’t change the past. This doesn’t have to be your future. You can still walk away.”
“And what?” pressed Yufit. “The Serpent will leave me alone? My mother will forgive me? The drum chiefs will show me clemency? This is my future. It’s too late for me. And it’s too late for you.”
The pain hit again, sharp as a knife. Amastan doubled over with a gasp. This time the pain receded slowly, leaving a stinging sensation in its wake. Yufit glanced toward the desk. Amastan followed his gaze to the half-empty water glass.
A cold certainty filled Amastan. He stood, or at least tried to. He made it to his feet, but the world spun away into darkness for a heartbeat and the next thing he knew, he was kneeling on the floor, awash in a cold sweat. His heart was beating too fast and his head began to pound.
Tamella had made them memorize the symptoms of poisoning.
His heartbeat was increasingly erratic, at times thundering ahead as if he were sprinting, at times skipping a beat here and there, sluggish as midday. Idly, he catalogued the symptoms and came up with a possible culprit: a poison derived from the rock-like pits of fleshy fruit. He even had the antidote in his chest.
If he could reach it within the next few minutes, he might be all right. He might live.
If not …
Yufit was watching him closely, the knife now still. Amastan stood, more carefully this time. The world swam, darkened, then steadied. He sucked down air, but it wasn’t enough. The pain stabbed again and this time when he doubled over, he threw up a thin stream of burning yellow liquid and the stale bread he’d remembered to eat hours before.
When he straightened, Yufit struck him across the jaw. Amastan stumbled back, his knees hitting the edge of his bed. He sat down with a thump. When Yufit came at him again, Amastan tried to stand, tried to bring his arm up to defend himself, but he was too slow. His nose blossomed with fresh pain and blood trickled over his lips.
Yufit stepped back, satisfied. Amastan understood.
“You had to poison me.” He breathed a weak hah. “You’re not good enough to best me without cheating. Did you poison the others?”
“No. They died quickly, as is fair for vermin.” Yufit’s anger sharpened and he pointed the tip of his knife at Amastan. “You used me.”
“No,” said Amastan. “Never. I talked
to you because I wanted to know about Yanniq, true, but after that—I cared. I listened. I wanted to help you. Save you from the jaan and watch the stars come out and see the whole of Ghadid with you.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them, but he didn’t have the strength to care. It was true. All of it. He’d cared.
Yufit’s brow tightened. “Stop lying.”
“I’m not,” said Amastan. “Believe me or not if you will, but I’m not lying.” He closed his eyes, felt his pulse heavy and fast in his fingers and his wrists and his feet.
He lunged for the end of the bed just as his stomach knotted in fresh pain. He fell short by a foot, slamming his knees on the floor. Yufit had moved for the door, throwing out his arms, expecting Amastan to make a run for it. He dropped his arms and stared at Amastan with fresh confusion. Amastan used the moment to haul his body the last foot to the chest and heaved its lid open. It seemed heavier than he remembered.
Yufit rushed him, but Amastan was already tossing out the chest’s contents, scattering knives and bags and rope across the floor. Amastan reached the floor of the chest and his fingernails found the edges of the bottom panel and he pried it up, revealing a hidden space and a black box beneath.
Yufit snatched the box from his hands. “No.”
Amastan curled around another stab of pain. When he could breathe again, he gasped, “Please.”
Too late, too late, it was going to be too late—
“I’m not going to enjoy watching you die,” said Yufit. He sat down on the edge of Amastan’s bed, his expression grave and the box on his lap. “You brought this on yourself.”
Amastan pushed his fingers into the floor, riding out another wave of pain. When it passed, he said, all in one breath, “What will you do about the jaan?”
“The elders will take care of them,” said Yufit.
“Will they?”
“Of course.” But Yufit didn’t sound so certain.
“And how many more will die like Megar?”
Yufit looked away.
“We can stop the jaan,” pressed Amastan, even as pain stabbed fresh. He gritted his teeth. “The elders figured it out. Today I helped Menna put together what we’ll need for the ceremony. It’s all ready and waiting for me—for us. I was going to meet her soon. We have to do it tonight, when the first storm arrives. If we work together, the jaan will take no more victims.”
Yufit laughed, dry and humorless. “Work together?”
“The ceremony requires at least two people,” said Amastan. “You need to be one of those people. The jaan”—pain cut him off and all Amastan could do for the next few heartbeats was breathe. When the pain dulled, he continued—“they’re drawn to you. You’re the reason they’re wild. They’ll come if you’re there.”
“Then I’ll go see your marabi friend after this is done.”
It was Amastan’s turn to laugh, although it came out more like a wheeze. “Menna won’t help you. She’s a cousin.”
“A marabi—?”
“She was there last night. She took Thana to the healers.”
“You both lied to me.”
“We tried to help you,” said Amastan. He closed his eyes. The floor felt more and more comfortable and his thoughts were growing harder to parse. His thin window of hope was drawing closed. “The jaan … if I had been lying to you all along … would I have saved you from the jaan?”
Amastan felt Yufit’s stare on him. He didn’t look up.
“We all think we’re right,” said Amastan, slowly and carefully. “Even the monsters. But how do you know when you’re the monster?”
Silence. Amastan’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. His stomach was a mass of pain. He knew what would come next. Convulsions. Loss of consciousness. Death.
A hand touched his, warm and real. Then he felt the smoothness of old wood. He opened his eyes to find the box in his hands. Yufit watched him, twisting his knife between his fingers. The box opened at the precise touch of thumb and forefinger on opposite sides of its lid. Inside: over a dozen glass vials, unlabeled. They held various powders, most white, some gray, one a lurid green. The second to last vial held a clear liquid. Amastan grabbed this one. Prayed he was right.
His fingers fumbled the cork. He was shaking now, and he had to set the box on the floor to avoid dropping it. He closed his eyes and took several steadying breaths, but it didn’t help.
The vial was plucked from his hands. Amastan reached for it as it left him, his stomach dropping. Yufit had been playing with him. Of course.
Yufit popped the cork from the glass, then held it out to Amastan, who stared in disbelief. Then he grabbed the vial as relief flooded him. The antidote tasted like soap and iron. It was the sweetest thing he’d ever drank.
Together, they waited in silence. Amastan was too weak to do anything but sit on the floor, hoping, praying. After what felt like hours, the pain in his gut started to loosen. At first he wasn’t sure if it was real, but then the sweat began to dry on his forehead and his pulse evened out. Distantly, he knew it’d take several days of rest before he felt anything close to normal. Being poisoned, Tamella had once told them, was a lot like being run over by a camel. The camel might no longer be in the process of running him over, but he was still left sore, battered, and bruised.
And he wasn’t out of range of the camel’s hooves yet.
He raised his gaze to Yufit, who stood frozen in the center of the room. He’d stepped back and away from Amastan, unwilling or unable to help any further. Already his brow creased with doubt. Whatever agreement they’d arrived at was tenuous.
One deep breath, then another. Amastan leaned back against the side of his bed, the urge to crawl into it, even with a killer in his room, still overwhelming.
“We don’t have much time,” he said. “I’m supposed to meet Menna soon. If you’re going to help us quiet the jaan, I’ll need to trust you.”
“I don’t think that’s possible anymore,” answered Yufit.
“No,” admitted Amastan. “Not really. But I’ll take your word for now.”
Yufit shifted uncomfortably. “That’s it? You’ll take my word? After I tried to poison you?”
“What else is there?”
Yufit considered, then nodded. He offered Amastan his hand. “You have my word I won’t kill you while we’re working together.”
Amastan took his hand. “Good enough. Let’s quiet some jaan. For Megar.”
“For Megar.”
29
Menna’s lips formed a thin line as she watched Amastan and Yufit approach. She leaned against the carriage pole, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. The carriage floor was covered in precariously stacked leather bags. Although the carriage was locked in place, the wind was so strong that it rocked the carriage back and forth, the metal cable creaking.
Menna straightened and pulled a dagger from her belt, which she held loose at her side: a promise, not a threat. “What’s he doing here?”
Yufit eyed her with equal wariness. “I promised I’d help.”
Amastan held up his hands. “We need him.”
Menna frowned. “No. We don’t. We’ve got the two of us—”
“And we need someone to stay up here,” said Amastan, realizing it was true as he said it. “Otherwise we’ll be trapped on the sands during the storm.”
Menna held up her hands. “If you think I’m going to trust him to get us back up, you must be touched.”
“Not him. You.”
Menna blinked. Dropped her hands. “But—that means just you and him down there. You trust him enough to be alone on the sands with him? ’Stan, he poisoned Thana. He killed Emet. Tamella wants his head. And honestly, I don’t really know what’s stopping me from calling the watchmen.”
“I trust him,” said Amastan. “Do you trust me?”
Menna chewed her lip. He could see that she was thinking of last night, of his fight with Tamella. Not for the first time, he was glad she hadn’t been there to watc
h.
She sighed. Sheathed her dagger. “I do, even if I’m not sure I should.”
“Right now, we all want the same thing,” said Amastan. “We want to stop the jaan before they claim another victim.”
“Yeah, now. But—what about after?” Menna’s gaze flicked to Yufit and back again. “Have you thought about that?”
Amastan looked into Yufit’s steel-cold eyes, but Yufit gave nothing away. Amastan knew what he planned to do—turn Yufit in. But he also knew Yufit wouldn’t go quietly.
“I have.” Amastan turned back to Menna. “I’ll cross that bridge when I reach it.”
Lightning lit the area with too-bright light and was gone just as quickly. Thunder followed, shaking the stones beneath Amastan’s feet. One of the bags started to roll off the side, but Menna reached out without looking and snatched it out of the air. She nestled it between two other bags.
“We’re running out of time.” Amastan gestured to Yufit. “Get on.”
“Do you have the diagram?” asked Menna.
As Yufit stepped onto the carriage, Amastan shook out the scroll. He turned it around and showed it to Menna. She checked it, counting under her breath, then nodded.
“Good. You know what to do?”
“Set the tinder in the right places, light them before the rain gets here, and pray to G-d that the jaan come.”
Menna clapped him on the back. “Exactly. Remember, the one marked with red has your blood—set it in the middle. That should be enough to draw them, but if not … you have your knife.”
Amastan nodded. Then he climbed onto the carriage, taking care not to step on any of the bags. He found a spot near the rail and held on tight. Yufit stood on the opposite side of the carriage, staring at the oncoming storm, his back to Amastan. That suited Amastan just fine.
“Three hard yanks on the cable,” said Menna. “Make sure you give yourself enough time to get back up before the storm hits. It’s going to be a narrow window, but I know you of all people can do that. And, by the way,” she pitched her voice to carry to the back of the carriage, “if you don’t come back alive, I’ll kill Yufit myself.” Yufit twitched, but didn’t turn. Menna smiled a smile that was all teeth, then sang out, “Ready?”