by K A Doore
Amastan felt Tamella’s intense gaze on him and looked up from his hands. Barag had disappeared, leaving her sitting alone at the hearth. Sorrow had stripped her down, making her thinner, even weak. Shadows pooled beneath her eyes, and for the first time Amastan truly understood how much older she was.
“Have you made any progress at all?” she asked, her tone holding nothing but bitterness.
Yanniq had pardoned murderers. Yanniq had quarreled with the other drum chiefs. Yanniq had known Tamella. That was it. That was the extent of his knowledge. Megar seemed like only a faint possibility now. How two dead cousins fit into it all, he couldn’t begin to guess.
No—he could. Tamella might be the link, if only he could find out what that link was. But seeing the anger and pain in Tamella’s gaze, he knew that asking her now would lead nowhere. She yearned for any reason to lash out and inflict her pain on someone else. He wasn’t strong enough to be that person.
No. He would ask her, but not yet.
There shouldn’t have been any contracts.
All at once, he knew exactly what he needed to do. History might give him a motive, but he needed more than that: he needed to catch a killer. Two cousins had now died on contract. If he didn’t get his nose out of a scroll and act, there would be a third.
“I have,” lied Amastan. “And I have a plan.”
* * *
Kaseem looked about as pleased to see Amastan as Amastan was to be there. Dawn had only just cracked, but Kaseem could have been awake for hours. He peered at Amastan wordlessly through the doorway, the curtain pulled aside just far enough for him to see.
“G-d bless, sa,” said Amastan.
“You should know when to quit,” said Kaseem. “G-d doesn’t take kindly to those who ask for more than they’re due, and G-d’s much more forgiving than I am.”
“Usem is dead, sa.”
If Amastan hadn’t been watching for it, he would have missed the surprise that flitted across Kaseem’s eyes. It was gone again in an instant and all that remained was a deep frown.
“I don’t know what that has to do with me.”
“Hopefully, nothing, sa,” said Amastan. “But two cousins have died while they were on a contract and I’m here to make sure there isn’t a third.”
“Clearly they were not the right men for the task.”
Something in Amastan had begun to fray last night and now the first strand snapped. “Did you tell Tamella that, when she came asking about her brother? Would you tell Usem’s widow that, clearly, he had not been up for it? Do you tell yourself that at night to help you sleep, instead of accepting any of the responsibility that came with choosing these men? Sa?”
“It’s not my fault they failed.”
Amastan sucked on his teeth and sent up a silent prayer for patience. “May I come in, sa? To make my case?”
Kaseem’s gaze shifted. “Depends. Will you be civil?”
“Have I ever been anything else, sa?”
Kaseem shrugged, considered for a moment, then stepped out of the way. Amastan pushed through the curtain into a room unchanged from the last time he’d been there. Kaseem hobbled over to his chair and settled into it with a sigh. He laid the cane across his knees and leaned back, regarding Amastan.
Amastan closed his eyes, trying to find calm and courage. But the last few days had left him with little of either. He couldn’t stop seeing the blood on Tamella’s forearms, the stringwork in Thana’s hands. He kept his eyes closed, forcing himself to see those images.
“Two cousins were murdered, sa,” said Amastan slowly, carefully. “Both of them were working contracts. One, at least, was found near his mark’s home. We could assume one was incompetent, but two stretches probability. The more likely scenario is that they were both caught unawares, by someone who knew where they would be, and when.”
He opened his eyes to Kaseem’s silent frown. Kaseem’s fingers were wrapped around his cane, but otherwise he hadn’t moved. Amastan knew he walked on thin glass. He wasn’t sure he cared.
“According to Tamella, there haven’t been any contracts in years. The drum chiefs haven’t allowed them. But clearly, they’ve been allowed again. Can you tell me, sa, when the drum chiefs lifted the ban? Was it recently? Say—two weeks ago?”
Kaseem’s silence was enough of an answer. Amastan forged on as another strand inside him snapped.
“The ban is lifted and the very first two cousins who take contracts are killed,” said Amastan. “Tell me, sa—has that ever happened before?”
“Of course not,” said Kaseem. “And I don’t like the way you’re going with this.”
I don’t care, Amastan almost said, but he bit back the words. Another strand, gone. “Can you be certain that these contracts are legitimate?”
Annoyance flashed across the visible strip of Kaseem’s face and hardened. “I have been in this business for well over thirty years, child,” he said. “And before that, my mother held the dubious honor of this profession. If, during any of that time, I had not acted in the full faith of the drum chiefs and the people, do you think I’d still be here? Not even your cousins are immortal. Some mess up and some are caught. So don’t come into my house and insult me.” He leaned back in his chair, rolling the cane to his lap. “You are free to leave.”
“But neither Usem nor Emet were caught,” said Amastan. “This wasn’t a contract gone wrong. Someone—the same person—knew where they would be. Someone caught them off guard. And then that same someone arranged things so their bodies wouldn’t be found before their jaan went wild.”
Kaseem sat forward, eyes narrowing. “What you’re implying—”
Snap.
“Someone knew, sa,” interrupted Amastan. “What I’m implying is someone knew. I can’t say how or why, but the killer knew about the contracts. That’s the only way they could’ve surprised a cousin. Two cousins. Because the killer knew exactly where to find them.”
“Out.”
“I’m not accusing you—”
Kaseem stood, his cane clutched in one hand. “You’re not? Have you heard a word you’ve said? First you implied I don’t carefully vet every one of my contracts. Now you’re saying I’ve been so careless that someone else knows about them. I do and I haven’t and I don’t have to listen to this kind of vile nonsense. Out.”
“If I leave, someone else will die.”
Kaseem whipped his cane around and would have smacked Amastan against the back of the knees. But Amastan was ready for him and had danced out of the way. Kaseem hissed, advancing on him with the cane raised. This time he made to strike from above, but then dropped and swung hard from the side. Amastan caught the cane in his hand, the smack of wood on flesh cracking through the room. His palm sung in pain and he was certain it was bruised, if not broken, but he held tight to the cane and met Kaseem’s gaze.
In that moment, Amastan knew what he had to do.
“Give me a contract,” he said.
Kaseem tried to tug his cane out of Amastan’s grip, but Amastan held tight. Kaseem glared at him over the top of the cane. Amastan matched his glare with what he hoped was calm and resolve. Inside, though, he roared like the wind from the Wastes. Part of him wanted Kaseem to keep resisting, to give him a reason to fight. Then he might be able to lay all the blame for his cousins’ deaths on someone else.
But Kaseem didn’t give him that satisfaction. He let go of his cane and stepped back. Amastan waited another heartbeat before relaxing. He held the cane out to Kaseem, who snatched it back and used it to settle himself into his chair.
“Why?” asked Kaseem as if their confrontation had never happened.
“Why not?” countered Amastan. “You can’t tell me anything about the previous two contracts and I respect that, sa. But if I take a contract, you can tell me about that one. If I’m right, and someone is using these contracts to target cousins, then this is my best shot at catching the killer. If I’m wrong, then I’ll complete the contract. You risk nothing,
sa.”
“You’re an untested assassin. That’s a huge risk. I hand-select my assassins based on their previous experience. You’ve never worked a single contract, not even with another cousin. No—it’s out of the question.”
“Then the next assassin who takes a contract will die,” said Amastan. He sighed, suddenly very tired. “I’m not accusing you of anything. But if there’s a hole in your network, if there’s a spy, or even if someone is locating and sending legitimate clients your way—wouldn’t you want to know about it? Wouldn’t the mere possibility deserve an investigation? Two assassins are dead, sa. There will be more. Please, sa. Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong.”
Silence filled the room, thick as porridge for one, two, three heartbeats. Kaseem fixed Amastan with those watery eyes, staring into him with an intensity that nailed him to the spot. Amastan held his breath, some of the roar within him calming, returning him to reason. This was it, he realized. If he hadn’t convinced Kaseem by now, nothing would convince him. He still had Yufit, Megar, and his stacks of scrolls, but he knew this was his only shot at finding the killer before someone else died.
Without softening his gaze, Kaseem said, “If I give you a contract, what’s your plan?”
Amastan started to sag in relief, but caught himself. “I’ll set a trap. Usem and Emet were caught unaware. They shouldn’t have been alone. I’ll ask Menna to be my partner. One of us will hide while the other is the bait.” He shook his head. “They should have had partners. That’s how we work, isn’t it?”
“These contracts specified that only one assassin would be paid,” said Kaseem, his voice strangely hollow. “They were straightforward and simple. They didn’t need two.”
“That’s … odd. Sa.”
“But not unprecedented. I’ve seen much stranger. And you must also remember, it’s been over a decade since the last contract. A lot has happened. A lot still needs to happen.” Kaseem rolled his cane between his fingers. “If you take this contract—and I’m not saying you will—you will need to work alone.”
“But then I can’t—” began Amastan.
“As far as I know, you are working alone,” interrupted Kaseem, leveling his gaze at Amastan. “Understand?”
“Yes, sa.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” continued Kaseem. “If I give you a contract, what will you do?”
Amastan frowned. “When we catch the killer, we’ll turn them over to the drum chiefs for judgment.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Who else could judge him, sa?”
Kaseem leaned forward, his gaze intent. “You must fulfill the contract. You can’t treat it like a tool that you discard when you’re done. This contract is not a means to an end. It’s a promise you must keep, whether or not it helps you. Do you understand?”
Amastan swallowed, the roar finally condensing into cold certainty. He understood. He’d understood the moment he’d realized what he needed from Kaseem. He’d thought he’d dodged the inevitable when Tamella told them about the contract ban. He should have known better. He’d trained to be an assassin, after all. Not a watchman. If he’d learned anything at all about the family from Barag and his coded histories, he knew this was exactly what he and his cousins were meant to do: save the city when no one else could.
He just had to do it within the confines of a contract.
He no longer had the luxury of doubt, of wondering if he could kill. He would have to. Because hesitating almost certainly meant another cousin would die. He’d already failed Usem and Emet. He couldn’t fail anyone else.
“I do,” said Amastan, putting the force of his sincerity behind those two words.
Kaseem met his eyes and held them for a heartbeat, then another. Finally, he nodded, accepting whatever he’d seen there.
“I have a contract,” he said. “Flush out the killer and complete this and I’ll consider you for future contracts. But if you fail at either, you’re done. Failure will unmask you and leave you exposed to revenge. You won’t be able to remain in Ghadid, at least not without watching your back for the rest of your days. Personally, I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Dread filled Amastan. He knew there were other cities along the edge of the Wastes, some like Ghadid and others coexisting with the sand, but he couldn’t comprehend living anywhere else. Forced to leave his friends, his family, everything—failure simply wouldn’t be an option.
“Do you understand?” asked Kaseem. When Amastan hesitated, he said, “You have another option.” His voice grew soft, almost gentle. Fatherly, if Amastan’s father had ever been kind. “Walk away. Forget about the killer. Warn your family. Surely whoever this killer targets next will get him instead.”
Tempting as it was, Amastan knew it wasn’t a real option. If he walked away now, Tamella’s unspoken accusation would become judgment. Emet and Usem’s deaths had become his responsibility the moment he thought he could play at watchman and find a killer on his own. His naïveté and inaction had cost the lives of two cousins. He should have done this sooner, he should have demanded a contract from Kaseem the last time he stood before him, Emet’s name on a slip of paper. He’d hoped to find his answer in the past without shedding a single drop of blood.
But you didn’t know.
He should have known.
Amastan met Kaseem’s gaze. “I understand, sa. I’ll complete the contract.”
The slightest of smiles touched Kaseem’s eyes. “Good. Let’s talk terms.”
17
Usem’s funeral was held three days later.
The crypt was packed with family, cousins Amastan knew and cousins he recognized and cousins he didn’t know. Cousins by blood and cousins through blood. Most wore white and those who didn’t have mourning clothes wore their palest colors. Amastan had borrowed a white tagel from his father, who’d decided not to attend. He’d avoided funerals ever since Amastan’s mother had died. The tagel itched and smelled faintly of ammonia. He preferred that to the dusty-sweet decay of the crypt.
Even with the curved room of the crypt full of living, breathing people, Amastan still felt a chill on the back of his neck. He was constantly aware of the dark holes of the tombs, no matter what was going on or where he was looking. He’d assumed it would be easier to be in the crypt when he’d already faced wild jaan three times. He’d been wrong.
Out of all the bodies here, Usem’s was the only one without a jaani. The marab had confirmed this unpleasant fact after Tamella had retrieved the body. There was no reason for his body to go into the crypts, no reason why the seven years couldn’t be skipped and this funeral couldn’t be held on the sands. Yet here they were, hemmed in by stone and metal and jaan, putting on a show for a lie.
“Hey.”
Amastan started, turned. A marabi had appeared at his elbow, her white wrap lined with novice purple and blue. A white cloth concealed her hair, but Amastan would know those sand-pale eyes anywhere.
A smile twitched up the corner of Menna’s lips, but it held no humor. “What a way to have a family reunion.”
Amastan tried to smile, but the dread in his stomach twisted the smile into a grimace.
“How’re you feeling?” asked Menna.
The question was innocuous, but Amastan knew what she meant. After his meeting with Kaseem, he’d found Menna and asked her to partner with him on the contract. She’d said yes before he could even explain what the contract was.
As the funeral preparations consumed the family, he and Menna had used every free moment to plan. Amastan had gone over every detail, every possibility, every angle for hours and hours. Menna had listened and occasionally chimed in with a thought of her own. There was no room for error. They’d decided to wait until after the funeral. No cousin would act before then.
But tonight they would set their plan in motion.
“Fine,” he lied.
Menna squeezed his hand. “We’ll get them, ’Stan. This’ll be the last funeral.�
�
“I hope so.” Amastan didn’t know what he’d do if it wasn’t.
Menna opened her mouth to say something else, but a drum began to beat, silencing the murmuring voices. Schooling her face into a blank mask, Menna pushed her way through the press of people. The ceremony had begun.
Amastan had only attended one other funeral—his mother’s—but that’d been over a decade ago, when he’d been much less aware of the world around him. Certain aspects of the funeral ceremony felt achingly familiar while others were just as alien to him. Close family read aloud from prepared scripts. Elder Dessin explained the importance of quieting the jaani and interring the body.
Then the crypt fell silent and all three marab wrote charms for quieting and peace in large, looping letters on a broad piece of smooth vellum, stretched high for the crowd to see. One marabi cleaned the vellum with a wet sponge and another squeezed the sponge’s ink-stained liquid into a glass jar. This liquid they dripped over the corpse, starting at its head and moving toward its feet. Meanwhile they chanted prayers which the crowd echoed in response.
The words of prayer hummed through the crypt, through rock and metal and bone. Amastan felt them and couldn’t help but think of the wind on the sands and the words in his ear. The marab’s act was all for show; Usem’s jaani was long gone.
Finally, the marab and a select few of Usem’s close family, Tamella included, lifted the body and slid it into its tomb, where it would remain for seven years. When those years had passed, the marab would hold another, much smaller ceremony down on the sands.
While the marab murmured one last prayer, Amastan scanned the crowd. He doubted Usem’s killer would be so bold as to attend his funeral, but he also would’ve doubted anyone could get the best of Usem. It was hard for Amastan to remember Usem was dead, to remember that the body sliding into the tomb was the same man who’d filled a doorway, who’d given him baats, and who’d made such a serious girl as Thana laugh.
