by K A Doore
Rain spattered the sand in thick, dark circles. Behind Amastan, just over the sound of the wind, came a rushing roar. They were out of time. The season was at an end. The rain was here.
The jaani followed close on Yufit’s heels, a red darkness that swirled and pulsed. Yufit reached the center of the seal. He spun. His gaze searched for, found, Amastan. Even from this distance, Amastan could see the smile in those eyes. Yufit raised his striker.
“No,” said Amastan, but the word refused to pass his lips. He took a deep breath and yelled, “Don’t!”
All that came out was a silent breath of air. Vividly, he recalled the way the jaani had struck his chest, remembered how Megar had fallen in the inn, his lips moving soundlessly. Like Megar, the jaani had stolen his voice. Amastan couldn’t stop Yufit.
Yufit struck a spark.
The spark fell, unhindered by rain or wind. It hit a tinder. Caught. Flared. Fire fled down the fuse and caught the next tinder, and the next, and the next. Flames jumped from tinder to tinder in a cascade of light until the whole seal was ablaze. Yufit disappeared behind a haze of fire and smoke and jaan.
The jaan whirled angrily. One tried to escape, coming straight at Amastan, but it ran into an invisible wall. The red of the jaani spread across the air only feet away, but came no closer. Then it was abruptly sucked back toward the center. A moment later, Amastan heard Yufit screaming.
The rain hit. A sudden rush of cool, wet wind was the only warning before a wall of water crashed over Amastan and rolled across the seal. The flames went out in a great puff of steam, taking the light with them. Suddenly, it was darker than midnight. All Amastan could hear was the rain, roaring and raging all around him.
His tagel soaked through first, stuck quick to his head. Then his wrap became sodden and heavy. He tried to take a step, but the fabric stuck fast to his limbs like weights. He undid his wrap’s knots and tossed it onto the carriage, leaving him naked but for his tagel and his weapons.
Rain ran cool across his bare skin. Lightning flashed, revealing the scene before him for a split second. Then it was dark again, darker than an unlit crypt. But a split second was all Amastan had needed.
He could see the carriage, waiting only for his signal to begin the ascent back up. He could see the lightning-lit seal, steam still rising from the burnt tinder. No sign of the jaan. But there was a body huddled at the seal’s center, unmoving.
Yufit. The murderer. The killer. The man who hated Amastan for everything he represented, for a crime Amastan didn’t commit.
Yufit might be dead already. And if he wasn’t dead, the storm would kill him. All Amastan needed to do was climb onto the carriage and signal Menna. He could go up and know Yufit had no way of following until morning, until well after the storm had passed.
It would be so easy to leave Yufit. After all, Yufit had tried to poison him. Yufit had kidnapped Thana, angered Tamella, murdered cousins, killed a drum chief, dishonored and disrespected the dead. Yufit had promised only to help until the jaan were quieted. Well, the jaan were quieted.
He’ll kill you.
All Yufit had known was death. Hennu had raised him on hatred and vengeance. But Amastan had glimpsed a different Yufit on the rooftop and in the inn. A Yufit without anger and revenge foremost in his mind. Who could Yufit have been if he’d had half a chance at his own life?
It’s too late for me, Yufit had said.
Amastan didn’t go for the carriage. He walked into the seal. Each time lightning flashed, it cut through the rain and showed him more. Flash. The tinder balls were little more than dark smears in the sand. Flash. As he neared the center of the seal, he felt the sand beneath his feet growing warm. Flash. In some places, the sand had turned to pockets of glass, red as blood.
Amastan didn’t touch them. The sands would bury the glass. Already one was half submerged.
Flash.
Yufit was curled into a ball, his hands over his head. Blood ran bright red between his fingers, but whether it was stained rainwater or fresh, Amastan couldn’t tell.
Flash.
Yufit hadn’t moved. Amastan couldn’t see if he was breathing. But this time, he did see the wound in his shoulder, the blood staining his wrap.
Flash.
The rain was coming too fast. It pooled around him, filled previously invisible trenches and runs in the sands. The area he stood in was turning into a river, and fast. He had to get out.
Flash.
He wouldn’t leave Yufit. He didn’t bother checking Yufit’s pulse; if he was dead, then he still deserved the dignity of having his jaani quieted. Besides, Amastan didn’t want to have to fight any more jaan. And if he was alive …
Yufit was heavier than Amastan had expected. Or maybe Amastan was just weaker. He paused, his arms around Yufit’s ribcage, wondering if he should try picking Yufit up a different way. He’d started by assuming Yufit was alive, but a dead weight should be carried over the shoulder.
Then Yufit shifted. Relief rushed through Amastan, as cool as the rain. The relief brought energy, which helped him get Yufit to his feet. Yufit was barely conscious, but, leaning on Amastan, he was able to put one foot in front of the other.
One foot. Then the next. Flash. The carriage a little closer. The water a little higher.
The growing river was ankle deep now and tugging at their feet. Worse, it was pulling away the sand beneath, turning normally tricky footing treacherous.
Flash. A few more feet. Flash. A few more. Flash—
Amastan grabbed onto the carriage railing. The river ran right beneath it, inches away. Amastan helped Yufit onto the carriage first. The river swelled, lapped over the edge of the carriage. It pulled at him. His feet slipped.
But Yufit reached out and held onto him. Amastan kicked against the water and the sand and hauled himself onto the carriage. He lay there for a moment, gasping for breath, rain beating against his face. Staring up into Yufit’s eyes.
He gave himself the luxury of that moment.
Then it passed. He hauled himself to his feet. Hit the wire three times. The storm muted its clang, but the vibrations would travel. He fell to the floor of the carriage and pulled his sodden wrap over himself, exhausted beyond belief.
“Is it done? Are they gone?” asked Yufit.
“They’re gone,” said Amastan, surprised to hear his own voice again.
Yufit smiled. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped. A moment later, the carriage jerked, jolted, and began to move.
31
Amastan kicked open the door to the healers. He’d meant to nudge it with his foot, but Yufit’s unconscious, rain-soaked body had started to slip off his shoulder and he’d overcompensated mid-nudge. The wind hadn’t helped. The result was a loud thwack as the door hit the inside wall. Two wide-eyed healers stared at him. One scrambled to help as Amastan maneuvered his awkward burden into the room while the other disappeared through a curtain. The door closed on its own behind him, abruptly cutting off the sound of pouring rain and rushing wind.
“What happened?” asked the healer, guiding Amastan toward a table. She was an older woman, her eyes marked by crow’s claws and her braids thick with colorful salas.
Amastan slid Yufit onto the table. Water dripped from his forehead onto Yufit. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I found him in an alley. There was blood on his head, but the rain washed it away. His shoulder, though…” He glanced around the small, empty room, noticing the wet trail he’d made on his way from the door to the table. “I don’t have any baats, but … bring me a bowl.”
Without taking her eyes off him, the healer grabbed a bowl from beneath the table and set it in front of him. Amastan hiked up the corner of his wrap and squeezed rainwater into the bowl. He worked his way around the edge of the fabric until the bowl was full.
“Is that enough?”
The healer pulled the bowl to herself. “Until we know what the problem is.”
“Bring me another.”
Amast
an filled two more bowls, twisting and squeezing out every last drop of water from his sodden clothing. It’d taken the entire carriage ride up, but he’d managed to knot the wrap back on. Menna had met them at the top, then disappeared into the night to alert the elders of their success, trusting him to handle Yufit. The fewer cousins who visited the healers, the better.
Amastan took off his tagel and wrung it out over the bowl while the healer averted her eyes. He tied his tagel back on, damp but no longer dripping.
“If that’s not enough, I’ll step outside again,” said Amastan. “The drum chiefs only prohibited collection.”
“Technically, that’s collection.” But the healer settled her hands over the bowl as she spoke.
“Does it count if I go down to the sands? That should be far enough out of the drum chiefs’ authority.”
“You’re doing a lot for a stranger.”
Amastan bit his lip. “Just … see what’s wrong with him. Please.”
The healer had already closed her eyes. Tendrils of blue wound out of the bowl and up her arms like snakes. Then the tendrils unfurled and spread across Yufit’s body until he was covered in a thin blue shroud. The blue gently settled on him, like a layer of dust. Then it disappeared beneath his skin.
The water level in the bowl dropped imperceptibly but inevitably. Seconds passed. Outside, the wind howled and somewhere too close metal tore in a long, ear-piercing screech. Amastan watched Yufit’s chest rise and fall and rise again, twisting his damp wrap between his fingers.
Then the healer let out a breath and opened her eyes. The blue broke and was gone. The healer placed a hand on Yufit’s chest. “He’s suffered some trauma to his head. A particularly bad blow. He has a concussion and a nosebleed. That’s where the blood came from. That—and his shoulder had a superficial wound. I’ve already healed it. The water you brought should be enough. He’ll be fine after a few days’ rest.”
Amastan sagged with relief. “Thank G-d.”
“He’s lucky you found him.” The healer poured the remaining water into another bowl. “If he’d been left alone, he might never have woken up.”
Amastan stared at Yufit, whose eyes occasionally darted beneath his closed lids. What did he see? What did he dream? Amastan hoped he would have a chance for better dreams, although he doubted it. Amastan may have spared his life, but the drum chiefs wouldn’t. Yufit was a murderer. The very laws that had stayed Amastan’s hand, that had made him confront Tamella, were the laws that would see Yufit executed.
Amastan couldn’t deny that Yufit had murdered Yanniq and Emet and Usem. He wouldn’t try. But was Yufit’s conviction that he was doing the right thing, however misguided, any different than Amastan’s own? Hennu had taught Yufit that Saman needed to be avenged. She’d raised him with the sole purpose of bringing her revenge against Tamella. She’d sowed the seeds of hatred in him.
The scratched-out name in the record—had she done that? She must have known what would happen, after her revenge had been carried out. As a drum chief herself, she couldn’t be ignorant of that fact.
Yet Amastan could see her argument. How was what she’d done any different from what Tamella did when she trained the next generation of assassins? They were both raised to a single purpose: to kill. But Yufit’s purpose had been selfish. From its very beginning, the Basbowen family had protected Ghadid. Yufit had protected nothing.
Tamella had given Amastan and his cousins a choice. At any point in their training, they could have dropped out, taken up another craft. Even after they’d passed their tests, they could have still left the family. Tamella might not have understood, might’ve even been disappointed, but she would’ve let them. And Amastan knew, now, that having that choice was one reason he’d decided to become an assassin, to continue being an assassin. He’d needed that space to understand and accept his role.
Yufit hadn’t had a choice. Not when his own mother had set him this task. Not when everything he’d learned had been filtered through layers of anger, resentment, and revenge.
Yanniq’s blood wasn’t just on Yufit’s hands. It was also on Hennu’s.
Drum Chief Hennu. He could see her as she was on the day she announced Yanniq’s death. The brilliant, sky-blue wrap. The glittering rings. One of those, he was sure, bore the same seal that had allowed the contracts to resume.
He could understand the pain of losing someone you loved. He’d been young when his mother had died, but that didn’t erase the sting. But that was no reason to twist the life of your child into a weapon. She’d wielded the knife through Yufit, had murdered the drum chief and the cousins from afar. And yet, if Amastan brought the evidence of her collusion before the Circle, what would they do?
Would they see her guilt as plain as Amastan did and spare Yufit? Or would they only see that she was marginally complicit? Little more than an unfortunate association.
Amastan didn’t know. It wasn’t up to him to decide. The drum chiefs had asked him to deliver Yanniq’s killer—and he would.
* * *
The downpour had thinned to a drizzle. Amastan walked slick streets, his wrap growing sodden and heavy once more. Torches glowed like lonely outposts in the gloom, their light dimmed by haze, their glass smeared with condensation. The streets were empty, save for bits of roof and broken glass, but he could hear laughter and loud conversations bursting from homes as he walked by. Occasionally, a child darted out from a door, screaming in delight at the illicit sensation of wet skin, hair, clothes.
But it wasn’t safe to be out in a storm, even its tail end, and so inevitably an adult would run after the child and drag them back inside. Lightning could still strike. A gust of wind could finish the job of tearing a roof apart that the storm had started.
So Amastan walked alone.
The rain stopped all at once, there one moment, gone the next. The stars blinked through a gap in the thick blanket of clouds. A gentle breeze cooled his skin and closed the opening. For the first time in months, the city didn’t smell like dust. Instead, it smelled alive.
Amastan squeezed the water from his wrap as he walked, but it was still dripping damp when he arrived at his destination. He stepped into the narrow alley and eyed the wall. He didn’t know which window he needed. He didn’t have all of his tools and weapons. He knew nothing about his mark’s habits or tendencies. He didn’t even really know what he planned to do once he found the right room.
He was as unprepared as he could be. And he didn’t care.
Amastan tied up the bottom of his wrap so it wouldn’t tangle in his legs and knotted his tagel higher. Then he started to climb.
Almost every window had been left cracked open to let in the cool, wet air, so it was easy for Amastan to peer in and give each room a cursory glance. The room he was looking for wouldn’t be on the first floor and it wasn’t on the second. He paused at the end of the row and crouched in a windowsill to let his muscles rest. He was tired, so tired, but he dismissed the possibility of giving up and going home as soon as it crossed his mind.
He found what he was looking for on the third floor. A large bedroom with a desk in one corner, a rich, thick rug across half the floor, and a wide bed in its center. The drum next to the desk only confirmed it: he’d found Drum Chief Hennu’s room.
The room was empty. Of course it was. Hennu would be downstairs or at Eken’s home, publicly celebrating the end of the season. Amastan took his time searching the room. He caught himself hoping that Hennu would walk in on him and give him an excuse to hurt her. A fire had caught in his chest as he’d crossed the city and Amastan wanted to destroy something, anything—anyone.
But she didn’t walk in on him. Amastan finished searching at his own pace. He didn’t find the ring. Hennu must have worn it to show her station, even for something so trivial as a party. He’d have to wait for her to return. He wasn’t going anywhere until he had that ring.
The room offered little in the way of hiding places. He took up a spot next to the door, op
posite the handle. When it opened, the door would hide him from view. Beyond that, he didn’t plan. He knew so little about her that he couldn’t plan. Things could go wrong. He might have to kill her.
He didn’t shy away from the possibility.
So he stood. And he waited. Minutes passed. Hours. Amastan counted his breaths, lost count, started again. His eyes itched with exhaustion. He considered lying down in her bed.
Not for the first time, footsteps approached outside. He waited for them to pass. They didn’t. The door opened.
Drum Chief Hennu entered her room.
32
Hennu wore the same sky-blue wrap she had on the day she’d announced Yanniq’s death. The hem was darkened by water, but the rest of it was pristine, the color as clear and vibrant as the sky itself on a cool winter day. She moved to her desk, letting the door close on its own behind her. She shed her gold bracelets and necklace, leaving them in a glass bowl that she set on a high shelf.
Amastan moved as she moved, his bare feet silent on the stones. When she turned toward her bed, he was no longer next to the door. Hennu slid off her sandals, then began to undo the knots of her wrap. As she did, she stepped in one of the damp spots Amastan had left behind. She stopped. Glanced down. Her head turned as she followed the wet footprints around the room.
Then her body turned with them, from the door to the bed to the open window. She went to the window, closed it, and turned back to the room. She gave a start when she saw Amastan leaning against her door.
“How did you get in here?” she demanded. Then she shook her head and took a step back. “Contracts aren’t allowed. You shouldn’t be here.”
“You should know better,” said Amastan, not moving from the door. “You lifted the ban.”
Hennu’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “You can’t know that.”
Amastan spread his hands, empty and open. “Does it matter? I’m here.”
“Who took out the contract? Was it Eken? That scorpion, I bet it was. He’s always been jealous of my neighborhood.”