Chapter Two The Jackal’s Tithe
Chapter Two
The Jackal’s Tithe
Marnapur, Viryana
Hasan Devar did not believe in the Welkish concept of hell, but if it existed, the summer heat had him convinced that he was already there.
Though it was dusk, the air was blistering.
It was the kind of dry, withering heat that made the fingers swell and the tongue shrivel with dehydration.
With not a cloud in the sky, the rainy season seemed in no hurry to arrive.
It was bad news for everyone, but it felt particularly damning to Hasan.
He dwelled on it as he stalked through the back alleys of Marnapur’s slums. In his state of inattention, he nearly tripped over a scrawny, half-nude child running across his path. Before he could speak, an arm reached out and ripped the boy away.
“Can’t you see the Jackal is coming?” the man hissed at the boy. He bowed his head to Hasan. “I apologize for my son. Please, he’s only seven.”
Now that Hasan was paying attention, he observed the boy was indeed no more than seven, though malnutrition had stunted his growth so badly, he could have easily passed for five.
Hasan’s gaze lingered on the boy’s ribs, jutting prominently through his ashy skin.
It was impossible to tear his eyes away from that kind of suffering, but the father stepped in front of his boy, fear evident on his face.
Hasan blinked, becoming aware of his surroundings again.
A crowd had gathered around them, all waiting to see what the Jackal would do next.
“You’re forgiven,” Hasan barked. “Watch where you’re going next time.”
He shoved through the crowd, disappearing into the winding labyrinth of the vasudhakt slums, cursing quietly.
Tonight of all nights, he had needed stealth on his side, even resorting to coming without a crew of his men.
Now the streets rustled with whispers, all of them asking the same thing: Who is the Jackal hunting?
His prey tonight was a particular man, one who had eluded paying his debt twice now. Hasan had a reputation to uphold, and if he didn’t catch his debtor tonight, people were going to say he was getting lenient.
He stopped in front of the mark’s house, observing it from across the narrow lane. With its dirty walls and battered wooden door, it looked like every other shack in the slums.
Hasan’s eyes roved to where an old beggar squatted farther down the street, smoking and reading a newspaper that covered half his face. He resisted the urge to grin; Vinay had always been talented at disguises. He approached his man casually, putting a coin in the small tin in front of him.
Vinay lowered the newspaper. “Thank you, son,” he said, bowing his head so exaggeratedly, Hasan had to tighten his jaw against a laugh. “May Baghia smile upon you.”
“Is the target in?” Hasan asked, keeping his voice low.
“I’ve been here twelve hours, and I haven’t seen him leave. My scouts haven’t spotted him anywhere else, either. He must be here.”
Hasan turned and eyed the house. Then he saw it, behind the curtain on the main floor—a moving shadow. Proof that Vinay was right. Darsh Jana was at home.
“Stay here,” he said, “and wait until I come out.”
With that, Hasan strode forward and knocked on the door.
The woman who answered was not Darsh Jana but his sister, Daria. She was young—barely in her twenties, if at all—and pretty in a way that was too delicate for the slums, like a wildflower that had grown through a crack in the pavement.
“Hasan?” Daria opened the door a fraction. He caught a glimpse of a threadbare blue dressing robe. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Are you home alone?”
She nodded.
Very well, if Darsh Jana wasn’t here, then Hasan could wait. He had all night. “Might I come in?” he asked. It was a formality, not a request.
Daria opened the door fully, stepping aside so he could cross over the threshold. “Come. Let me make you some chai.”
The inside of the house was even more decrepit than the outside.
Though a broom was propped up against the wall, the bare floor was still grimy.
A layer of dust coated the stiff, threadbare furniture.
He moved quietly around the cramped room, inspecting the faded picture of Darsh’s parents hanging on the wall, a limp garland of dead flowers draped over it.
In the kitchen, Darsh’s sister was making a racket as she prepared tea for the two of them.
“Where’s your brother tonight?” he called, running a finger over the dusty frame.
“Oh, I wouldn’t know.” Daria laughed a little. “He’s always working, my brother. Does every odd job he can find. He’s not gotten a moment’s rest since Mama and Baba passed.”
Touching, but entirely untrue. Hasan doubted that Darsh Jana had done a single day’s honest labor since a rickshaw accident claimed both his parents’ lives.
Behind him, Daria came in with a steel teapot and two glass cups balanced on a tray.
She put the tray down carefully on a crate masquerading as a coffee table.
“Please,” she said, “sit.”
Hasan gingerly took a seat on the rickety couch. As Daria poured, he asked her again, “So where is Darsh working this evening?”
Daria shook her head. “I told you, I don’t know where he is.” The stream of black tea wavered slightly, spilling over the lip of one glass.
“He’s your brother. Your only remaining family. And you expect me to believe that you don’t know what he’s doing?”
The girl shrugged as she put Hasan’s cup down in front of him. He seized her wrist so swiftly, she had no time to pull back. Hot tea sloshed out of the cup and ran down his forearm, but he barely felt the burn.
“Your brother owes me a lot of money, you know,” he said softly, as though he were trying to coax a stray cat out from under his car. “Where does a man with no money to his name spend his evenings?”
Daria stayed silent, her gaze locked on where his long fingers had wrapped around her wrist like manacles.
“Hiding.” Hasan answered his own question. “I know when someone is lying to me. I have eyes all over the city. If my men find him first, I won’t hold back. But if you tell me the truth tonight, I’ll show him mercy.”
Daria wavered; Hasan pounced. “Last chance, Daria: Where is Darsh?”
“I don’t know anything,” she insisted. Then she looked up at him through her lashes, her calf eyes wide and innocent. “But if my brother is in your debt, then perhaps I can repay it.”
As though her meaning were not already clear, Daria placed her free hand on top of where Hasan still held her wrist, trying her best to change the meaning of his grip into something more intimate.
While she reached across, she bent a little lower, letting the front of her robe hang open, a window of temptation for most men.
But Hasan was not so easily tempted as most men.
He didn’t bother to hide his disdain as he pulled back. “It’s money I want. Nothing else.”
“Are you sure?” Daria purred, though the noise sounded more like the mewling of an alley cat than the seduction of a sultry vixen.
She pushed down one sleeve of her dressing robe, exposing first her collarbone, then her shoulder.
It became painfully obvious to Hasan that she had planned to seduce him from the start.
“I’m certain,” he said, his voice cool and detached as he rose from the couch.
She blocked his path, fumbling with the tie holding her robe closed. “You don’t sound certain.”
Hasan seized both her wrists in one of his hands and thrust her back firmly. “Look. I don’t have time for pleasantries,” he said. “Tell Darsh he cannot avoid me forever. I will catch him eventually. Each time I have to come calling, I will double his debt. Starting today.”
With that, he released her. Turning on his heel, he made to leave one last time. Daria caught his arm again, and he nearly swore.
“Wait!” Her voice cracked.
Damn if the girl wasn’t stubborn. But when he turned around, there were tears in her eyes, and the tip of her nose was turning red. “We don’t have the money. He’s trying, I swear. Just give us one more week. One more chance.”
Godsdamn it. “Your brother is already two weeks late. He’s run out of chances. You know what happens now, don’t you?”
Daria burst into tears. “Please, Hasan. You said you’d show mercy if I was honest.”
Hasan’s heart stirred against his will. For a moment, he hesitated, mercy and duty fighting against one another.
A deadline was a deadline. Though it seemed cruel to withhold mercy, it would have been unfair to his other debtors, who had either paid on time or suffered the consequences.
Plus, if word got around that he had given an extension to Daria, then every Raj, Kumar, and Anil who owed him money would be flinging their sisters into his path.
Zeyar would have said that they weren’t running a charity—and though Hasan was rarely in agreement with his brother, he couldn’t disagree with facts.
He looked at Daria again. She sobbed loudly, like one of the village performers his grandfather used to take him to see as a boy.
His mouth flattened into a thin line. As unfair as it was to his other debtors, it would have been even more unfair to Daria to punish her for her brother’s mistakes, especially when he had promised to be merciful.
“Two more nights,” Hasan ground out. “That’s all. Then I burn this place down, no matter who’s inside.”
Daria gasped a sigh of relief. As she started a fresh wave of waterworks, Hasan ducked around her, slamming the wooden door shut behind him. Vinay lowered his paper and made to stand, but Hasan shook his head discreetly. Vinay sank back down.
Hasan pretended to head toward the street, then ducked into the gap between two homes and came around the side of the Jana house, squatting beneath the window.
As he strained his ears, he heard a commotion coming from inside the house.
“Useless! You were supposed to seduce him,” a familiar male voice roared. Glass shattered in a resounding crash, punctuating the shout.