by K A Doore
“There’s no contract,” admitted Amastan. “If there was, you’d be dead by now.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because you and the other drum chiefs asked me to find Yanniq’s killer.”
This caught Hennu by surprise. She frowned. “I didn’t kill Yanniq.”
“I know.” Amastan straightened. “Your son did.”
Hennu stepped back, her mouth opening slightly. She hesitated and her dilemma played across her bare face. To deny or not? Finally, she decided. “Is he dead?”
Amastan felt a weight on his chest. Then he reminded himself that Yufit was fine, the healers would take care of him. But how long before his execution?
How long before Amastan turned him in?
“Yes,” said Amastan, the single word both a lie and not.
Hennu let out a breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them again a heartbeat later, though, there was no trace of tears. “You didn’t come here to tell me my son is dead.”
“No.” He twisted his wrist just so, loosening the strap there so that a small dagger slid free, its hilt fitting perfectly into his palm. The flame burning in him had flared at Hennu’s lack of remorse. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do next, but the uncertainty didn’t terrify him; it thrilled him. “I came here because you lifted the ban and because you’re the reason why Yufit is dead.”
Hennu’s gaze tracked the blade. “Am I now?”
“If you wanted to kill the Serpent, you should’ve done it yourself. I have proof that you lifted the ban. The other drum chiefs don’t know you did it. What will they do once they find out?”
The edge of Hennu’s lips turned up in a sneer. “Where’s your proof?”
Amastan danced forward, tucking the knife beneath Hennu’s throat. With his other hand, he grabbed her fingers and felt along them until he found her rings. This close, he could smell her vanilla-perfumed breath, cloying and rank. His fingertips passed over two, then slid off the third. Amastan stepped back, the knife between them as he fumbled the ring and confirmed that it was the drum chief seal. He held it up.
“This.”
Hennu laughed. “That won’t get you far. Each drum chief wears an identical ring.”
“They’re not identical,” said Amastan. Keeping Hennu in his line of sight, he examined the ring. He didn’t need to see Kaseem’s order to know it was an exact match.
“Prove it.”
Amastan pocketed the ring. “I will.”
“Is that it? Is that your threat?” pressed Hennu. “You know I’ll tell them that you stole the ring and forged the order yourself, right?”
“Why?”
Hennu shrugged. “How should I know? Your family is bloodthirsty. That should be answer enough.”
“You would know,” said Amastan quietly. “You’re family.”
That made Hennu freeze. Then anger spilled out of her, hot and fast. “I haven’t been family since Tamella murdered my wife. Don’t you dare say that again.”
“Your fight with Tamella should’ve stayed between the two of you,” said Amastan. “You should never have brought Yufit into it.”
“What, and hide it from him? Yufit deserved to know what happened to his mother.”
“He did. But he didn’t deserve for that to define his life.” He sighed, exhaustion eating away at his resolve. What was he doing? He’d never get through to Hennu. “What will the Circle do when they find out you lifted the ban without consulting them?”
“They’ll never believe an assassin.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain about that.” Amastan slid his dagger back into the sheath at his wrist. He didn’t want to be here in this room anymore. He wanted to leave, to check on Yufit, make sure he was all right. He had what he’d come for, after all. He turned toward the window.
“That’s it?” asked Hennu, sounding skeptical. “You’re just going to take the ring?”
The fire in Amastan flared suddenly, as bright and hot as the fire on the sands, as the fire that had consumed Megar, as the fire on the rooftop when he’d first fought Yufit. In an instant, he had a blade in each hand and he’d crossed the space between him and Hennu. But this time Hennu wasn’t as passive.
She sidestepped and reached under the desk. Her fingers played for a moment and Amastan heard a click. Before he could trap her against the desk, she’d slipped away again. Now she held a short sword between them, her eyes glittering with anger.
“You forget,” she said. “I was trained, too.”
She swung. Amastan danced back. Hennu anticipated his reaction and cut her swing short, throwing her weight into a stab. Amastan twisted to the side and out of the way, but just barely: her blade sliced through his wrap, already sticky from the rain, to skin beneath. Hot pain followed moments later, as Hennu had recovered and pressed her attack.
Amastan gave ground foot by foot. Hennu was surprisingly quick for her age and she attacked with a chaotic ferocity. More used to his cousins’ measured and practiced moves, Amastan was hard-pressed just to defend. He deflected blow after blow as Hennu hacked at him like a butcher trying to dismember a goat.
His foot touched the wall first, then his shoulders. He was trapped. A triumphant gleam glinted in Hennu’s eyes. She drew her sword back and stabbed as if it were a spear.
Amastan dropped his daggers and grabbed her sword by the blade with his bare hands, stopping it a hairsbreadth from his wrap. Hennu’s blade was sharp as glass and cut into his palms. His blood pulsed in ribbons down the metal. In another moment the blade would be too slippery to hold. Amastan pushed the blade aside with all of his strength and stepped away.
Hennu’s blade clanged against the wall. She pivoted but Amastan was there, his bloody hands over her eyes. She flailed blindly. Amastan grabbed her wrists just as she started to raise her sword and his fingers dug in deep. She hissed in pain and then let go, the sword clattering to the ground. Amastan shoved her back against the wall, picked up the sword, then stepped in close.
Breathing heavily, he settled the point of the sword at the base of her throat. Despite the exertion, the sword did not waver.
He met her eyes, finally wide with fear. One twitch and he could bleed her dry. One cut and he could end this. He wouldn’t have to rely on the Circle’s whim for judgment. He could avenge Yanniq and Usem and Emet and Yufit in one swift movement. He could even claim it was self-defense. The Circle would understand. They couldn’t have hired assassins to find a killer and not expected a body in return.
He pictured it. Leaving her body to cool on the floor of her bedroom. Not bothering to alert anyone to her death. Someone would find her before it was too late, but if not, wasn’t it right for her jaani to go wild? Wasn’t it just?
Tamella would tell the Circle that they had found the killer. The Circle would believe her or they wouldn’t. The family would end or it wouldn’t. Amastan wasn’t sure he cared.
But in the same instant he saw more hatred and more bloodshed. Hennu had other sons, other daughters through Saman. People she loved and who loved her. Which of them might want revenge if Hennu died as her wife had, at the hand of an assassin? The Circle might have expected blood when they demanded the family to act, but blood didn’t have to be the answer. It wasn’t up to him to decide.
Amastan didn’t have to make the same mistakes Tamella had. He didn’t have to repeat the past. No matter how much he wanted to in that moment.
He let the sword drop and stepped back. “You will admit to lifting the ban without consulting the Circle, to inciting your son to violence on your behalf, to causing, if indirectly, Drum Chief Yanniq’s death. You will take whatever punishment the Circle sees fit to give. You will retire and pass on the drum. And you will be done with your vengeance. If you don’t, I will be back. If not me, another cousin. Even if we’re rounded up or exiled, I promise you it will be the first and last thing that we do. Let the past be the past.”
Drum Chief Hennu swallowed. In that moment, Amastan hope
d he’d judged her correctly. He started to raise her sword again, but then she nodded.
Amastan let the sword drop to the ground with a loud clang, final as a drum. He kicked it away, then picked up his daggers. Hennu stayed where she was, only her eyes moving as he walked to the window. He pushed open the glass, letting a breath of wet air in. He climbed out, but paused while he was still in the window frame.
His gaze met hers one last time. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Then he dropped out of the window and was gone.
33
“The Drum Chiefs accepted your evidence.”
Amastan raised bleary eyes to Tamella, standing before him in a wrap the shade of evening purple. It brought out the warmer tones of her dark skin, making her look vibrant and alive. Tamella had no smile for him. Amastan held up his cup of tea in a silent offer, but Tamella shook her head. She stayed where she was. Her gaze drifted toward the hearth, and the glow of the embers reflected in her eyes.
“I wouldn’t have let her live,” said Tamella. “She’s a danger to herself and the city. She’s already demonstrated she can’t let the past go. And now she’ll be stripped of her drum. She has so much more to resent. What were you thinking?”
“I didn’t want to repeat your mistake, ma.”
Tamella winced. “What do you know about mistakes?” she asked, but her tone made it clear she didn’t want an answer.
Finally, she sat. She perched on the edge of the hearth, her back to the embers. “I can find a hundred different ways to fault how you went about your task. I wouldn’t have done what you did, not even close. But maybe that’s the point. You found the killer. You turned in Drum Chief Hennu. You stopped what could easily have become another cycle of murder and revenge.” She sighed. “And on top of all that, you convinced the drum chiefs to officially lift the ban.”
That caught Amastan’s attention.
Now Tamella smiled, if only thinly. “Not your intent, was it? But you showed them the value of the family. You also showed restraint. You would have been in your right to kill Hennu. She attacked you. You defended yourself. But you didn’t kill her.” She shook her head. “Whether or not that makes you exceptional or stupid, I still can’t decide, but the Circle was impressed. So.” She met his gaze and placed her fist over her heart. “Congratulations, sa.”
It was Amastan’s turn to wince. “Please don’t use ‘sa.’”
“Why not?” asked Tamella, her smile thin and humorless. “You earned it.”
* * *
The streets were full of people talking, laughing, smiling. An air of celebration suffused every platform Amastan crossed, every neighborhood. Doors and windows were thrown wide open, feet were bare, and children zigzagged around clusters of chatting adults, screaming with delight. Girls wore red ribbons in their hair, boys wore red strings around their wrists.
The day season ended was a holy day—for all the classes, including slaves. It was one of the few days a year that slaves were allowed off. Bare-faced men and clean-shorn women gathered in small clumps, carefully ignored by all. They, too, wore red on their wrists like children.
Amastan walked through clashing smells of bitter tea, savory lamb, sweet date syrup, and pungent spices. It seemed as if the whole of Ghadid had been shaken out onto its streets. Yet Amastan might as well have been walking the streets at midday during season. He felt distant, ungrounded, and alone.
But he walked with purpose. He knew exactly where he was going, even if he didn’t know what he would do when he got there. He’d left Yufit with healers in the Aeser neighborhood last night. He should be stable now, resting. The healers would keep him asleep if he asked. At least long enough for the watchmen to arrive.
Tamella had told the drum chiefs that Yufit was barely holding on to life. She hadn’t told them where he was, because Amastan hadn’t told her. The drum chiefs wanted Yufit turned over to face trial as soon as he could walk. After all, why waste water healing a condemned man?
Amastan knew what he had to do. Yet his feet dragged along the stones the closer he got to his destination. He could have alerted the watchmen from a distance. He didn’t have to go himself to the healers. But he knew he’d regret it if he didn’t see Yufit one last time.
Too soon, he came to the door he’d kicked open last night. This time he pushed it open with the palm of his hand before he could hesitate or turn away. Inside was much the same as he’d last found it. Quiet. Beds empty. The air as clear and damp as outside. All the windows thrown open. Two healers, one older, one younger. This time, the younger one didn’t disappear into the back when he entered.
Amastan stopped two steps inside. Beds empty. He scanned the room again, but it was small and had nothing to hide.
“Where is he?” he asked. Then, with increasing panic, “You said he would live.”
The older healer held up her hands. That’s when Amastan picked out a new salas in her braids, this one silver. “Your friend is fine.”
Amastan let out a puff of relief. He glanced toward the curtain in the back. “Then where is he?”
The older healer met his gaze and clasped her hands before her. “He left.”
“But—he couldn’t have left. He was unconscious. You said he’d be out for a while.”
The healer shrugged, a small, ineffectual gesture. “I was wrong.”
Amastan thought he’d be angry. He thought he’d be frustrated. But instead, all he felt was relief.
He let out all the breath he’d been holding and he sat on the edge of an empty table. “Did he say where he was going?”
“No.” The healer rustled around in her wrap and pulled out a folded scrap of vellum. “But he left a note. He said to give it to you when you returned. And he also said…” Here she hesitated, her gaze briefly dropping to the floor before meeting his again. “He said he was sorry.”
Amastan accepted the vellum. The healer waited, clearly curious about its contents. But Amastan couldn’t bring himself to read it. Not yet.
“Thank you, mai.” He pressed his closed fist to his heart. “You did everything you could.” He started to go, but then paused and drew out a few of the baats the drum chiefs had given him. He set them on the table before leaving, their metallic clink the only sound.
The note burned in his fist. Amastan left the healers. He went south, crossed two platforms, and came to a familiar wall. The barrel was gone, but a rusty ladder lay in the rain-stirred dust, one of its rungs broken clean through. But Amastan didn’t need a ladder. There were more than enough handholds in the old stone.
The glasshouse looked different with daylight. Its lock gave easily under his picks and in another moment, he stood on its roof. Sunset was creeping closer, but there was still plenty of bright, hot light, now weighed down by humidity. Yet Amastan could see the same patterns he’d picked out before, the circles of platforms, neighborhoods, and city.
A knot in his throat made it difficult to swallow. A cloud dimmed the sun and Amastan blinked at the sudden change in light. Overnight, the world had changed. Clouds rolled lazy across the sky, thin and puffy. Another storm brewed in the east, but whether or not it would break free and come for them, not even the stormsayers knew. Either way, it would still rain over the mountains and that rain would feed the aquifer and the pumps would run again.
In a few weeks, the first of the iluk caravans would return. The markets would spill through the streets, bursting with fresh spices, new fabric, and expensive wood. Vibrant green life would fill the glasshouses and the heady smell of plants and flowers would suffuse the city like tea. The drum chiefs would allocate baats and new work would be commissioned, debts repaid. The city’s life cycle would start anew, revitalized for another year. Another season.
Overnight, everything had changed.
It was a time to celebrate. But Amastan felt none of that.
He sat down on the edge of the roof, his legs dangling over the side. Then he unclenched his fist and opened the note.
&nb
sp; Asaf—
I recognize that’s not your true name, but you will always be Asaf to me—the overly earnest server, not the murderer. Yet how much of a murderer can you be when you saved me from the jaan, not just when you thought I was innocent, but when you knew I had killed family of yours?
Your adherence to the law is admirable, but it does not erase the blood on your family’s hands. What you are is wrong, what you do is wrong, and no amount of recasting your role or your name will change that.
But perhaps you are right in one respect: it’s time to let the past go. I did what I could, and while I failed to stop the Serpent, further action on my part would be foolish. I choose to believe that your strong sense of justice will prevail among your kind and that you will emerge as their natural leader, even if I cannot believe in what you do.
By the time you receive this note, I will be gone from Ghadid. I don’t see a life for me here anymore. Don’t look for me. I couldn’t tell you all of this in my own voice because I feared I would not be able to leave. If G-d is kind, we will meet again in another future and another existence. If G-d is kind, we won’t meet again as we are now. I fear I would not withstand it.
You said once that even monsters think they’re right. Perhaps we are both right.
Perhaps we are both monsters.
May G-d light your darkness,
Yufit
Epilogue
“There’s a man at the door asking to see you.”
Amastan looked up from the wrap he’d been mending to find Thiyya standing in his doorway, wearing healer’s blue. Thiyya glanced around his room, her brow furrowing with concern.
“You know, you can always bring your work downstairs,” she said gently. “We won’t bother you. It’s not good for you to sit alone up here.”
“I’m fine,” said Amastan.
Thiyya looked as if she wanted to contradict him, but then just shook her head and left. Amastan folded the wrap and set it on the end of his bed. Then he surveyed his room, wondering what Thiyya had seen. Everything was neat and in order. His scrolls were stacked in a perfect pile on his desk, his pens laid out in a line next to them. His sheets were clean and folded and even the curtains drawn over his window hung straight.