by K A Doore
Still, Thana’s heart hammered. Holy man or not, a marabi was a man of G-d and they could protect themselves in ways that went beyond mere knives and poisons. It was rare for a contract to be written on a marabi, but when they were, the crimes were significant.
“Why is the Empress’s marabi here?” Thana sipped her tea as she considered a different question: did Kaseem know that Heru was already hard at work among the drum chiefs? If he’d spoken to Eken, then he’d spoken to others. Was he trying to start an uprising?
“I don’t know.” Kaseem’s gaze unfocused in thought. “But there’re guesses, conjectures. I suspect the Empress is testing us. She might be searching out weaknesses for another siege. Or she may be sowing dissension. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Thana ran her thumb along the note’s edge. “But killing the marabi, an ambassador … that would guarantee a war.”
Kaseem steepled his fingers and met her gaze. “Yes.”
Thana considered. Her mother had taught her to question the motives of any potential employer, but Amastan had taught her to consider the bigger impact. A contract might be justified against a particular mark, but if it didn’t serve Ghadid, it didn’t serve the family. In its own way, the family protected Ghadid. Starting a war didn’t sound like protecting the city.
Then again, war had been brewing between Ghadid and the Empire ever since the late Emperor had added them to his map. If the Empress didn’t send an army now, then she would in the months or years to come. Wasn’t it better to have that war on their own terms, rather than at the Empress’s whim? If Ghadid reacted strongly enough, perhaps the Empress would strike the city from her map and be done with them.
In a way, it was already too late. If the Empress had sent her own marabi to Ghadid, even as an ambassador, then she’d already shot the first metaphorical volley. If they didn’t respond strongly, they’d look weak, perhaps even accepting. The tone would be set for future discourse. Ghadid couldn’t risk it. Thana couldn’t risk it.
She folded the note and slipped it into a pocket. “What else can you tell me, sa?”
“I have only rumors.”
“Then give me rumors.”
Kaseem poured himself another cup and took his time stirring in sugar. He set the spoon down and took a sip before answering. “The Empress’s marab are a breed apart from our own. They attend the dead and their jaan, but she has encouraged them to pursue nontraditional studies and research. There’s even rumor that she has removed restrictions on some previously banned lines of study. This has seeded her court with marab who are not wholly devoted to G-d. This ambassador in particular is one of the worst offenders, intent on twisting the word of G-d into blasphemies. He’s a keen but cruel man, whom few but the Empress can abide. And, most importantly”—Kaseem held up a finger—“he’s traveling alone.”
Thana frowned. A loner would be tougher to lure out. A loner would notice if someone went through their things. A loner wouldn’t leave their drink unattended or their back unprotected. A loner would be on their guard.
Then her frown curled into a smile. It was a difficult contract, yes—but Kaseem had come to her. She wouldn’t disappoint him. And with Amastan as her partner, nothing could stop her.
“I accept. Let’s talk payment.”
3
“But a two-pronged approach won’t work,” insisted Thana. “Not this time. There’s no way to drag the mark out. We have to go to him.”
She sat in the window of her room, legs tucked to her chest and hand dangling. Beyond, the sky was a cloudless blue, any mugginess lingering from the storms too thin to be felt, the air quickly returning to its usual stink of hot stones and sand. The gnats had all but disappeared with the rain, but a few still insisted on buzzing by her ear. She swatted at them in vain.
Amastan paced her room, hands clasped behind his back. On the small table by her bed was the note that detailed her—their—contract, alongside an empty teapot. Thana had found Amastan as soon as Kaseem had left and invited him into the contract. He’d accepted, of course. Then he’d begun to fret.
His tendency to overanalyze every angle of a contract had ensured their success in the past, but shards and dust, was it annoying. It’d already been several days since the eventful party and they’d made no progress. Their mark had kept his head down and was holed up in an inn. Whatever had driven him to seek out the drum chiefs was gone and now he kept to himself, leaving the inn at odd hours and avoiding routine. For an ambassador, he was surprisingly private and skittish.
No, the two-prong approach that’d brought them so close to Eken wouldn’t work here.
Amastan’s nose wrinkled as he chewed his lip. He’d tied his tagel low for this meeting. “We need to draw him out—”
“How? He’s not talking to anyone.”
“A disturbance. You go in as a servant at the inn and—”
“If we’d known ahead of time, we could’ve slipped in before he arrived. But he’s spooked—he won’t trust any new servants.”
“It doesn’t need to be a servant. The inn is full of iluk and other foreigners this time of year.”
“What then? I try to talk to him? He’s an ambassador, the only people he wants to see are drum chiefs, and I don’t have to explain why impersonating one of them would be a bad idea.”
Amastan stopped pacing and turned to her. “Then what do you propose?”
“Kaseem said we need to be quick. So: a poisoned arrow. We can hit him through a window—”
“The further away we strike at him, the higher the chance he’ll survive.”
“So you’re not gonna like my idea of slipping into the kitchen and poisoning his food.”
“Unless we can guarantee he’ll eat it. And I doubt either of us wants to risk another reaction like Eken’s.”
Thana winced. That oversight belonged to both of them, but she couldn’t shake her own guilt. They’d come within inches of disaster. Poisoned drinks and food were out, then.
Quick and messy, that’s what Kaseem had implied and what the contract demanded. She knew, then, what they needed to do. She also knew Amastan wouldn’t like it. Well, he’d just have to handle it, because this was her contract, not his. Her shot at making a name for herself. And if they messed up, it’d be on her. So they wouldn’t mess up.
“We’ll track his routine for a few nights, then slip in while he’s asleep and slit his throat.” Thana wiped her hands together as if brushing off dust. “Simple.”
Amastan’s frown was slow, considering. “He’ll have wards, charms, and who knows what else. We might not be able to just sneak in.”
“We’ll visit Salid and he’ll sell us stronger charms. We’ll ask Menna and she can tell us how to break his wards. And if we run into something else, there’s two of us and one of him. He won’t have a chance.”
Amastan’s gaze slipped past her and out the window as he thought. Thana waited as patiently as she could. She was right. He’d see it too, he had to see it—
“Yes,” he said. “You’re right. I understand now why Kaseem chose you for this particular contract. He saw some of Tamella in you.”
Thana bristled but bit her tongue. If this contract went right, then maybe Amastan and Kaseem and all the rest of her cousins would stop seeing her as just the Serpent of Ghadid’s daughter.
“But we still need to be careful,” continued Amastan.
“Of course,” said Thana. “We’ll watch him for a few nights—he has to have some kind of routine. The building next door has a glasshouse, but it doesn’t take up the whole roof. We can set up there. When we feel good and comfortable, then we go in and do whatever it takes to finish the contract.”
“We can’t assume we’ll have more than a few days,” warned Amastan. “We don’t know how long he plans on staying.”
“We won’t need more than that.”
Slowly, Amastan nodded. “I see no obvious flaw in this plan.”
Thana prickled with pride. From him, that
was high praise. She smiled and slid off the windowsill. “Then we’d better prep. We’re going to have some long nights ahead.”
* * *
Heru Sametket sat alone at a table on the edge of the inn’s overcrowded common area, oblivious to everything and everyone around him. His attention was fixed on the paper unrolled across his table and the pen in his hand. He wrote in furious bouts only to pause for long stretches and chew on the end of his pen.
He wore a dark blue tagel up to his eyes, but he itched at the fabric like a young man unused to the cloth. Despite his class, he wore neither charms nor any jewelry. He had on the same white wrap he’d worn at the party, which glared bright and conspicuous in the gloom.
The color choice was perplexing. Only the grieving wore white, the shade of sun-bleached bones and death. Thana had found a little about the Empire and its marab in her father’s library, but only learned that they preferred red or even black and certainly nothing to confirm Kaseem’s salacious rumors. Ghadid’s own marab wore gray. Only mere whimsy could explain his choice, which irritated her more than she liked.
Across the room from the mark, Thana prodded a half-eaten bowl of porridge and traded verbal jabs with a handful of her cousins. She’d talked them into joining her tonight, but they didn’t know she was actively working a contract—and they wouldn’t suspect. Only those of her family who’d been chosen for the profession would’ve had the training to notice Thana’s disengagement. She’d chosen cousins in other lines of work, so no one commented when she picked at her food and stole glances at the mark.
Outside, Amastan was nestled on a neighboring rooftop. He’d pick up surveillance when Heru went upstairs, which he always did after dinner. If he wandered away on an errand instead, then Amastan would follow. Amastan was less skilled at tracking than Thana, but he had already spent two evenings inside the inn. They couldn’t risk his presence becoming familiar. Besides, he could use the practice.
The server plopped a mug next to Heru and moved on. Heru took it, lifted his tagel, brought the mug halfway to his lips, and paused. His eyebrows formed a hard line and then he was on his feet. He grabbed the server’s elbow and yanked him back to the table. Thana dabbed at her porridge with a piece of crust and tried not to stare.
Heru stabbed his finger at the mug. “What is this?”
The server tried to shake free, but Heru held fast. “It’s your drink, sa.”
“No, you imbecile. There’s a crust around the edge and a stain on the lip. This mug is filthy. How dare you serve me in a dirty mug?”
The server blinked. “It’s as clean as it gets, sa.”
Heru shoved the mug at him, spilling half its contents across the floor and the server. “Then clean it again!”
The inn’s owner, a man by the name of Idir who was solid if slow, approached from the kitchens, drying his hands on a towel. “What’s the problem, sa?”
The server fled and Heru turned his anger on Idir, brandishing the mug like a weapon. “I don’t know what kind of clientele you normally serve at your establishment, but even the lowest slave wouldn’t drink from such a disgusting mug.”
Idir took the mug, glanced at the offending rim, then gave it a quick rub with his towel. He handed it back. “There. Clean as new.”
A lone chuckle burbled up from the back of the room. A man wearing a tagel as red as blood had paused his card game to watch. Something about him tickled Thana’s memory, but she shoved it aside. Heru took the mug back reflexively but didn’t bother to inspect it. He opened his hand and let the mug fall. It hit the floor and split in two with a jaw-shuddering crack, spraying dark wine across the stones. The room went silent.
Idir looked down at the mess. “I’ll add that to your bill, sa.”
Heru grabbed Idir by the shoulders and stepped close. He hissed into the other man’s ear. Idir’s expression shifted from annoyance to amusement, then concern, and finally wide-eyed terror. When Heru let him go, Idir was trembling. Shoulders slumped, he bowed to the marabi, picked up the remnants of the mug, and hurried from the room.
The whole inn was staring now, but Heru ignored them and returned to his seat. Within moments, he was reabsorbed in his work and the scratch of his pen was the only sound in the room. Slowly, the other patrons picked up their conversations and smothered the eerie scritch scritch scritch with murmurs and strained laughter. Thana’s companions exchanged nervous glances.
“Who does he think he is?” muttered one cousin.
“He better not be staying long,” said another. “He’ll get himself marked if he keeps that up.”
Thana hid her smile by taking a drink.
Heru paused, then put his pen down and reached under the table to a small sack. He pulled out a blue glass bottle and poured some liquid onto a cloth. He used this to wipe both the table and his hands. He’d performed this same ritual twice just this evening. Thana could only guess at its significance.
A woman slid into the seat next to Heru, her unnaturally straight hair tumbling across bare shoulders. Her wrap dipped dangerously low, and she leaned forward a little as she turned toward him. Thana’s cheeks warmed and she twisted her gaze back to the marabi’s face for his reaction. But he ignored the woman and began writing again.
A cousin jostled Thana’s elbow and she peeled her attention away. She nodded once or twice, too distracted to parse her cousins’ conversation, and snuck another glance when she took a drink. The woman—she had to be a whore—pouted. Her eyes were lined with thick kohl and her lips had been painted a bright, painful red. She’d leaned in close to Heru and was fluttering her lashes. Then her gaze dipped to what the marabi was writing. Her pout deepened into a frown, but she didn’t draw away.
Heru finally looked at her, his pen still hovering over the paper. His gaze was cool and analytical, as if the whore were merely an insect. His tagel fluttered as he spoke. The whore replied, a sly smile pulling back her lips to reveal yellowed teeth. She wiggled her chest, but Heru’s gaze never strayed from her face.
The woman, unperturbed by his lack of enthusiasm, slipped an arm around his shoulder. Heru abruptly stood, rolling up his papers and recapping his pen. The woman offered him another pout, but Heru was already stalking toward the stairs that led up to the private rooms. The woman frowned, then glanced toward the back of the room. The man in the blood-red tagel made shooing motions at her. Rolling her eyes, the whore followed Heru.
Thana finally recognized the man in red. He’d been at Eken’s party, had made that strange remark. His presence among Eken’s guests meant several things, most interestingly that the late drum chief had been in the habit of inviting whoremongers to his public events. What was he doing here in the same inn as the mark? Perhaps he meant to take advantage of a foreigner’s ignorance and rob him.
Well, he could have the mark’s baats when the contract was complete. Thana wouldn’t need them.
“Did you hear that, Thana?”
Thana bit her cheek and smiled. She was being too conspicuous; might as well run with it. “No—I was hoping that whore would give up and come over here.”
Her cousins all laughed. Guraya slapped Thana on the shoulder, her hand heavy with wine. “She’s too much for you.”
“Oh come on, a girl can dream.” Thana elbowed Zdan and wiggled her shoulders in a parody of the whore which was only exaggerated by Thana’s small chest and modestly tied wrap. “Don’t tell me you weren’t watching.”
Zdan rolled his eyes at her but didn’t deny it.
Guraya giggled. “You better act quick. Another caravan just arrived, so they’re going to be pretty busy. I can’t wait for the market next week, there’s going to be—”
Thana zoned out again. A week felt so distant when she had a mark to kill in the coming days. She pretended to listen, but kept checking the stairs, waiting for the whore to return. Guraya was right, the inn was overflowing with iluk who’d be easy pickings for such attention. The whore wouldn’t waste her evening on one mark. Any minut
e now …
But the whore didn’t reappear. Gradually, the other patrons paid up and either took their leave or retired upstairs, some with whores at their side and some alone. A handful were locals, but most belonged to the caravans. The extra cloth around their shoulders and heads, their longer tagels, the dust that lightened every inch of uncovered skin marked them as iluk, probably Azal.
Eventually only Thana, her cousins, and two people in the far corner remained, one of which was the man in the blood-red tagel. Thana had watched the whores return one by one, but the woman who’d followed Heru still hadn’t appeared. Unease had slowly filled her along with a need to act. She’d been sitting in this stuffy, crowded room for long enough. It was time to find Amastan and see if he’d learned anything new.
Idir began to sweep the floor, his only warning that whoever didn’t leave soon would find themselves tossed out. Thana left the baat for her drinks on the table but hesitated as her cousins headed for the door. She needed to know what Heru had said to Idir that had shaken him so. Anything could give them an edge.
Idir didn’t look up from his broom when she neared. “How may I help you, ma?”
Thana kept her voice low. “I was only wondering what that man said to you, sa. It isn’t too late to call the watchmen. If he was intimidating you—”
Idir stopped sweeping and looked up. “You’re Tamella’s daughter, aren’t you?”
Thana started. “How did you know?”
Idir’s eyes crinkled with a friendly smile. “You have her cheekbones, ma. I’ll never forgive her for marrying Barag. Such a strong woman shouldn’t be held down by a soft-skinned poet. But that’s not your fault.” Idir glanced down at his broom for a heartbeat, then rolled his shoulders back and met Thana’s gaze. “If you were anyone else—aside from Tami—I wouldn’t answer your question, but … you seem cut from the same cloth. You won’t think I’ve been touched.”
Idir gestured with his broom toward the stairs. “I know they say he’s a marabi, but whatever he worships, it’s not G-d. He spoke of things that should be forgotten.” His fingers tightened around the broom. “I’ve seen a lot over the years, there’s been mad men and wild jaan beneath this roof, but neither have chilled me as much as him. He threatened to bind my jaani. And, ma—I fear he can.”
