Kitabı oku: «The Thin Executioner»

Don’t lose your head — find out more at

www.darrenshan.com

For:

Jebel Rum's beloved

OBEs (Order of the Bloody Entrails) to:

The country of Jordan, which inspired much of this book's

setting and plot, and whose landmarks provided the names of all

the characters (with three exceptions) and places

Stella Paskins honed the editorial blade for the final time

The Um Little put their heads on the chopping block next to

mine, as always

Contents

Map

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Other Books by Darren Shan

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

Map

ONE

The executioner swung his axe – thwack! – and another head went rolling into the dust. There was a loud cheer. Rashed Rum was the greatest executioner Wadi had ever seen and he always drew a large crowd, even after thirty years.

Five executions were scheduled for that morning. Rashed had just finished off the third and was cleaning his blade. In the crowd his youngest son, Jebel, was more interested in the high maid, Debbat Alg, than his father.

To Jebel, Debbat Alg was the most beautiful girl in Wadi. She was the same height as him, slim and curvy, with long legs, even longer hair, dazzling brown eyes and teeth so white they might have been carved from shards of the moon. Her skin was a delicious dark brown colour. She always wore a long dress, usually with a slit down the left to show off her legs. Her blouses were normally cropped and close-fitting, revealing much of her smooth stomach.

Rashed Rum tested his blade, then stepped forward. He nodded at the guards and they led the fourth criminal – a female slave who’d struck her mistress – to the platform at the centre of the square. Jebel slid up next to Debbat and her servant, Bastina.

“I bet she’ll need two blows,” he said.

Debbat shot him an icy glance. “Betting against your father?” she sniffed.

“No,” Jebel said. “But I think she’ll try to wriggle free. Slaves have no honour. They always squirm.”

“Not this one,” Debbat said. “She has spirit. But if you want to risk a bet…”

“I do,” Jebel grinned.

“What stakes?” Debbat asked.

“A kiss?” It was out of Jebel’s mouth before he knew he’d said it.

Debbat laughed. “I could have you whipped for suggesting that.”

“You’re just afraid you’d lose,” Jebel retorted.

Debbat’s eyes sparkled at the thought of having Jebel punished. But then she caught sight of J’An, Jebel’s eldest brother, handing his father a drink. Debbat would have welcomed a kiss from J’An, and he knew it, but so far he’d shown no interest in her. Perhaps he thought he had no competition, that he could claim her in his own sweet time. It might be good to give him a little scare.

“Very well,” Debbat said, startling both Jebel and Bastina. “A kiss if you win. If you lose, you have to kiss Bastina.”

“Mistress!” Bastina objected.

“Be quiet, Bas!” snapped Debbat.

Bastina pouted, but she couldn’t argue. She wasn’t a slave, but she had pledged herself to serve the high family, so she had to obey Debbat’s commands.

“Bet accepted,” Jebel said happily. Bastina had a sour, pinched face and her skin wasn’t anywhere near as dark as Debbat’s – her mother had come from a line of slaves from another country – but even if he lost and had to kiss her, it would be better than a whipping.

On the platform the female slave was motionless, her neck resting snugly in the curve of the executioner’s block, hands tied behind her back. Her blouse and dress had been removed. She would leave this world as vulnerable as when she had entered it, as did everyone when they were executed. When the wise and merciless judges of the nation of Abu Aineh found you guilty of a crime, you were stripped of everything which had once defined who you were — your wealth, your clothing, your dignity, and finally, your head.

Rashed Rum drank deeply. Refreshed, he wiped his hands on his knee-length, bloodstained tunic, took hold of his long-handled axe, stepped up to the block and laid the blade on the slave’s neck to mark his spot. His eyes narrowed and he breathed softly. Then he drew the axe back and swept it around and down, cutting clean through the woman’s neck.

The slave’s head hit the base of the platform and bounced off into the crowd. The children nearest the front yelled with excitement and fought for the head, then fled with it, kicking it down the street. The heads of um Wadi or Um Aineh were treated with respect and buried along with their bodies, but slaves were worthless. Their bones were fed to dogs.

Debbat faced Jebel Rum and smiled smugly.

Jebel shrugged. “She must have frozen with fear.”

“I hope you don’t freeze when you kiss Bas,” Debbat laughed.

Bastina was crying. It wasn’t because she had to kiss Jebel — he wasn’t that ugly. She always cried at executions. She had a soft heart and her mother had told her many stories when she was growing up, of their ancestors and how they had suffered. Bastina couldn’t think of these people as criminals who had no right to life any more. She identified with them and always wondered about their families, how their husbands or wives might feel, how their children would survive without them.

“Come on then,” Jebel said, taking hold of the weeping girl’s jaw and tilting her head back. He wiped away the worst of her tears, then quickly kissed her. She was still crying when he released her and he pulled a face. “I’ve never seen anyone else cry when a person’s executed.”

“It’s horrible,” Bastina moaned. “So brutal…”

“She was fairly judged,” said Jebel. “She broke the law, so she can’t complain.”

Bastina shook her head, but said nothing more. She knew that the woman had committed a crime, that a judge had heard the case against her and found her guilty. A slave had no automatic right to a hearing – her mistress could have killed her on the spot – but she had been afforded the ear of the courts and been judged the same as a free Um Aineh. By all of their standards, it was legal and fair. Yet still Bastina shuddered when she thought about how the woman had died.

“Why aren’t you muscular like your brothers?” Debbat asked out of the blue, squeezing Jebel’s bony arm. “You’re as thin as an Um Kheshabah.”

“I’m a late developer,” Jebel snapped, tearing his arm free and flushing angrily. “J’Al was the same when he was my age and J’An wasn’t much bigger.”

“Nonsense,” Debbat snorted. “I remember what they looked like. You’ll never be strong like them.”

Jebel bristled, but the high maid had spoken truly. He was the runt of the Rum litter. His mother had died giving birth to him, which boded well for his future. Rashed Rum thought he had a tiny monster on his hands, one who would grow up to be a fierce warrior. But Jebel never lived up to his early promise. He’d always been shorter and skinnier than other boys his age.

“Jebel doesn’t need to be big,” Bastina said, sticking up for her friend — her mother had been his nurse, so they had grown up together. “He’s clever. He’s going to be a teacher or a judge.”

“Shut up!” Jebel barked furiously. Abu Aineh was a nation where warriors were prized above all others. Very few boys dreamt of growing up to be a teacher.

“You’d be a good judge,” Bastina said. “You wouldn’t be cruel.”

“Judges aren’t cruel,” said Debbat, rolling her eyes. “They simply punish the guilty. We’d be no better than the Um Safafaha without them.”

“That’s right,” Jebel said. “Not that I’m going to become one,” he added with a dark glare at Bastina. “I’m going to be a warrior. I’ll fight for the high lord.”

“You? One of my father’s guards?” Debbat frowned. “You’re too thin. Only the strongest um Wadi serve the high lord.”

“You don’t know anything about it,” Jebel huffed. “You’re just a girl. You–”

Rashed Rum stepped forward and Jebel fell silent along with the rest of the crowd. The day’s final criminal was led to the platform, an elderly man who had stolen food from a stall. He was an um Wadi, but he behaved like a slave, weeping and begging for mercy. He made Jebel feel ashamed. People booed, but Rashed Rum’s expression didn’t flicker. They were all the same to him, the brave and the cowardly, the high and the low, the just and the wicked. It wasn’t an executioner’s place to stand in judgement, just to cut off heads.

The elderly man’s feet were tied together, but he still tried to jerk free of the executioner’s block. In the end J’An and J’Al had to hold him in place while their father took aim and cut off his head.

J’An would come of age in a year and join one of Wadi’s regiments. When J’An left, their father would need a new assistant to help J’Al. The position should be offered to Jebel, but he doubted it would be. He was thin, so people thought he was weak. He hoped his father would give him a chance to prove himself, but he was prepared for disappointment.

Debbat turned to leave and so did the other people in the square. But they all stopped short when Rashed Rum called out, “Your ears for a moment, please.”

An excited murmur ran through the crowd — this was the first time in thirty years that Rashed Rum had spoken after an execution. He took off his black, hooded mask and toyed with it shyly. Although he was a legendary executioner, he wasn’t used to speaking in public. He coughed, then laughed. “I had the words clear in my head this morning, but now I’ve forgotten them!”

People chuckled, a couple clapped, then there was silence again. Rashed Rum continued. “I’ve been executioner for thirty years, and I reckon I’ve got maybe another ten in me if I stay on.”

“Fifteen!” someone yelled.

“Twenty!”

The burly beheader smiled. “Maybe. But I don’t want to push myself. A man should know when it is time to step aside.”

There was a collective gasp. Jebel couldn’t believe what he was hearing. There had been no talk of this at home, at least not in his presence.

“I’ve always hoped that one of my sons might follow in my footsteps,” Rashed Rum went on. “J’An and J’Al are fine boys, two of the best in Wadi, and either would make a fine executioner.”

As people nodded, Jebel felt like he was about to be sick. He knew he was the frail one in the family, not as worthy as his brothers, but to be snubbed by their father in public was a shame beyond that of a thousand whippings. He sneaked a quick look at Debbat Alg. She was fully focused on Rashed Rum, but he knew she would recall this later and mock him. All of his friends would.

“J’An will be a man in a year,” Rashed Rum said, “and J’Al two years after that. If I carry on, they won’t be able to fight for the chance to take my place.” Only teenage boys could compete for the post of executioner. “I asked the high lord for his blessing last night and he granted it. So I’m serving a year’s notice. On this day in twelve months, I’ll swing my axe for the final time. The winner of the mukhayret will then take my place as Wadi’s executioner.”

That was the end of Rashed Rum’s speech. He withdrew, leaving the crowd to feverishly debate the announcement. Runners were swiftly dispatched to spread the news. Everyone in Wadi would know of it by sunset.

The post of executioner was prized above all others. The god of iron, Aiehn Asad, had personally chosen the first ever executioner of Wadi hundreds of years ago, and every official beheader since then had stood second only to the high lord in the city, viewed by the masses as an ambassador of the gods. An executioner was guaranteed a place by his god’s side in the afterlife, and as long as he didn’t break any laws, nobody could replace him until he chose to step aside or died.

J’An and J’Al knew all of this, yet they remained on the platform, mopping up blood, acting as if this was an ordinary day. In a year the pair would stand against each other in the fierce tournament of the mukhayret, and fight as rivals with the rest of the would-be executioners. If one of them triumphed, his life would be changed forever and almost unlimited power would be his for the taking. But until then, they were determined to carry on as normal, as their father had taught them.

Near the front of the crowd, Debbat Alg gazed at J’An and J’Al with calculating eyes. On the day of the mukhayret, the winner could choose any maid in Wadi to be his wife. More often than not, the new executioner selected a maid from the high family, to confirm his approval of the high lord, so it was likely that one of the brothers would choose her. She was trying to decide which she preferred the look of so that she could pick one to cheer for. J’An had a long, wide nose and thick lips which made many a maid’s knees tremble. J’Al was sleeker, his hair cut tight to complement the shape of his head, with narrow but piercing eyes. The inside of J’An’s right ear had been intricately tattooed, while J’Al wore a studded piece of wood through the flesh above his left eye. Both brothers were handsome and up to date with the latest fashions. It was going to be difficult to choose.

Beside Debbat, Bastina also stared at J’An and J’Al, but sadly. She was thinking of all the heads the new executioner would lop off, all the lives he’d take. The Rum brothers had been kind to her over the years. She didn’t like to think of one of them with all that blood on his hands.

And beside Bastina, Jebel stared too. But he wasn’t thinking of his brothers, the mukhayret tournament or even Debbat Alg. He only had thoughts for his father’s words, the horrible way he had been overlooked, and the dark cloud under which he must now live out the rest of his miserable, shameful years.

TWO

Jebel wandered the streets of Wadi as if stunned by lightning. It was the middle of summer, so most people retired to the shade as the sun slid towards its noon zenith. But Jebel took no notice of the heat. He shuffled along like a bound slave, his father’s insult ringing in his ears.

He had never been especially close to Rashed Rum. Like all Um Aineh, his father prized strength above everything else. He was proud of his first two sons, the way they’d fought as children, the bloodied noses they’d endured without complaint, the times they’d taken a whipping without crying.

Jebel had never been able to keep pace with J’An and J’Al. All his life he’d been thin, wiry, weak. He didn’t have the build or the fire in his heart to be a champion, so he was of little interest to Rashed Rum. His father and brothers had always been kind to him – they were a close-knit family and took all of their meals together – but casually mocking at the same time. They loved Jebel, but made it clear in a dozen minor, unintentional ways every day that they didn’t consider him an equal.

Jebel didn’t think his father had meant to offend him when he made his announcement. His youngest son probably never even crossed his mind. Most likely he assumed that Jebel was set on being a teacher or trader, so why would the boy care if his father praised his brothers and overlooked him?

But that wasn’t the case. Jebel had always dreamt of becoming a warrior. He studied himself in the mirror every morning, hoping his body had grown overnight, that his muscles had thickened. Some boys came into their prime later than others. Jebel wanted to be strong like his brothers, to impress his father.

Now that could never be. His father had shamed him in public and that stain would stay with him like the tattoo of the axe on his left shoulder, the sign that he was an executioner’s son. Jebel had thought he could go far with that tattoo, even given his slim build, as everyone had great respect for the executioner’s family, but no regiment would want him now. People didn’t forget an insult of this kind, not in Abu Aineh. How could you ask to join a regiment of warriors if your own father had made it clear in public that he didn’t consider you up to such a task?

Jebel felt like crying, but didn’t. He had been five years old the last time he’d cried. He had woken from a nightmare, weeping and shaking, and moaned the name of the mother he’d never known, begging her spirit to come and comfort him. Rashed Rum overheard and solemnly told Jebel the next morning that if he ever wept again, he would be disowned and cast out. It was a promise, not a threat, and Jebel had fought off tears ever since.

Jebel walked until he could deny his thirst no longer. Slumping by the side of a well, he drank deeply, rested a while, then made his sorry way home. He didn’t want to go back and wouldn’t have returned if he’d had anywhere else to go.

He passed Bastina’s house on his way. This was one of her free afternoons, so she had come home after the executions to help with the housework. Servants of the high lord had to work almost as hard as slaves, and had nowhere near as much freedom as others in the city, but it was a position of great honour and they were guaranteed a place by their god of choice in the next world when they died.

Bastina was out on the street, beating rugs, as Jebel went by. She stopped, laid down the rug, picked up a jug of water and handed it to him. He drank from it without thinking to thank her, then poured the remains over his head, shaking the water from his short dark curls. Bastina tugged softly at her nose ring while he was drinking, studying him seriously. He lacked his brothers’ good looks – his nose was thin and slightly crooked, his lips were thin, his cheeks were soft and light where they should be firm and dark – but Bastina found him passable nevertheless.

“How long have you been walking?” she asked and Jebel shrugged. “You could get sunstroke, wandering around all day.”

“Good,” Jebel snorted. “Maybe the sun will kill me if I walk long enough.”

“I’m sorry,” Bastina said quietly.

“Why?”

“Your father should have mentioned you along with J’An and J’Al.”

“He’s got more important things to think about than me.”

“Fathers should treat their sons equally,” Bastina disagreed. “Even…”

“Even if one’s a thin, no-good rat?” Jebel said stiffly.

“Don’t,” Bastina whispered, dropping her gaze.

“Don’t what?” Jebel challenged her.

“Don’t hurt me just to make yourself feel better.”

Jebel’s anger faded. He didn’t say sorry, but he touched her nose ring. “New?”

“Three days.” Bastina grimaced. “It hurt when it was pierced. I’m not looking forward to the next one.”

“It’s nice,” Jebel said. As Bastina smiled, he added, “But not as nice as Debbat’s new ear-ring.”

“Of course not,” Bastina said sullenly. “I can’t afford the same rings or clothes as a high maid.”

“That’s a pity,” said Jebel, thinking about Debbat’s tight blouses. Then he recalled his father’s speech and sighed. “What am I going to do, Bas? Everybody will laugh at me. How can I face my friends, feeling like a worm? I…”

He stopped, dismayed that he’d revealed his true feelings. “Never mind,” he grunted, pushing past Bastina.

“You could talk to your father,” Bastina said softly.

Jebel paused and looked back. “What?”

“Tell him how he hurt you. Explain your feelings. Maybe you can–”

“Are you mad?” Jebel burst out. “Tell him he made a mistake? He’d whip me till I dropped! It’s bad enough as it is — I’ll end up a damn teacher or judge. But if I whine like a girl, he’ll send me off to do women’s work.”

“I was only trying to help,” Bastina said.

“How can an ugly little troll like you help?” Jebel sneered.

“At least I’m not a runt!” Bastina shouted and instantly regretted it.

Jebel’s lips trembled. For a moment he thought about strangling Bastina – he’d be executed if he did, and all his worries would be behind him – but then he came to his senses and he slumped to the ground.

“I’m ruined, Bas,” Jebel groaned. “I can’t live like this. Every day I’ll be reminded of what my father said, the way he disgraced me. I dreamt of proving myself in the regiments, of maybe even serving the high lord, but no one will want me now.”

Tears welled up in Bastina’s eyes. She crouched beside Jebel and took his hand. “You can’t think like that. A warrior’s life isn’t for everyone. You have to make the best of what you have.”

Jebel didn’t hear her. He was thinking. “Maybe I’ll enter the mukhayret,” he muttered. “I can’t win, but if I made it past the first few rounds…”

“No,” Bastina said, squeezing his hand. “You can’t compete against the likes of J’An and J’Al. People would mock you. It would make things worse.”

“I might surprise them,” Jebel persisted. “Maybe make it to the last eight. If I did, my father would be proud of me.”

Bastina shook her head. “Only the strongest enter the mukhayret. People will sneer and make fun of you if you put yourself forward as a genuine contender.”

“Not if I made it to the last eight,” Jebel said stubbornly.

“But you wouldn’t!” Bastina lost her temper with her foolish friend. “You’d be crushed in the first round, humiliated in front of the whole city. You’re not a warrior, Jebel, and even Sabbah Eid couldn’t turn you into…”

Jebel’s head shot up and Bastina winced. She smiled shakily. “What I mean–”

“Sabbah Eid,” Jebel interrupted, his brown eyes lighting up.

“No,” Bastina groaned. “Don’t even think–”

“Sabbah Eid!” Jebel exclaimed and leapt to his feet. “Bas, you’re wonderful!” He bent and kissed her forehead, then ran off before she could say anything else, leaving her to sit in the dust, cursing herself for the suicidal notion which she had inadvertently placed in Jebel’s dizzy head.

THREE

The high maid Debbat Alg was watering flowers in one of her father’s gardens. Debbat enjoyed gardening. It was her only pastime, apart from looking beautiful. Her servants did most of the hard work – sowing, seeding, digging – but Debbat often watered and pruned in the spring and summer evenings.

She was examining a cluster of pink roses near a wall when somebody hissed overhead. Looking up, she was astonished to spot skinny Jebel Rum in a tree, grinning down at her like a cat.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Debbat shouted, taking a step back.

“Quiet!” Jebel pleaded. “I need to talk with you. I have a favour to ask.”

Debbat’s eyes narrowed. “You disappeared swiftly this morning,” she chuckled wickedly.

Jebel pretended he hadn’t heard. “I need your help.”

“With what?” Debbat snorted. “Getting down out of that tree?”

“No. I want to quest, but I need permission. Your father–”

“Wait a minute,” Debbat interrupted. “You want to quest?”

“Yes.”

“Quest where? For what?”

Jebel paused for effect, then said, “To Tubaygat, to petition Sabbah Eid.”

Debbat’s jaw dropped. “You’re mad!” she squealed.

“I’m going to become the new executioner,” Jebel said. “I can’t win the mukhayret as I am, so I’m going to quest. I’ll work my way north to Tubaygat, ask Sabbah Eid to give me inhuman strength and make me invincible, then return. Nobody can stop me winning then.”

“Indeed not,” Debbat said mockingly. “Nobody could stop you becoming high lord either, if you had a mind to.”

“But I don’t,” Jebel said. “I’ll swear to that if your father will hear my request. That’s one of the reasons I don’t want to ask my own father, so there can be no trouble between our families.”

“The other reason being he wouldn’t let you go.” Debbat laughed. “It’s been a hundred years since anybody completed a quest to Tubaygat. Dozens of our finest warriors have died trying, or returned defeated and shamed. What makes you think you’ll fare any better?”

“I’ve nothing to lose,” Jebel said softly. “I’m shamed anyway if I stay.”

Debbat started to dismiss him. He was a silly boy and he was wasting her time. But then she saw his look of glum determination and stopped. She was sure he’d fail, but in the unlikely event that he did return triumphant, he would be the most revered man in Abu Aineh. He would become the executioner and claim her as his wife. Her mother had taught her never to offend those you might one day be at the mercy of.

“What makes you think my father will hear your request?” she asked.

“You’re his favourite daughter,” Jebel said. “He’ll listen if you enter a plea on my behalf.”

“Why should I? I’d have to vouch for you. I’d be discredited if you failed.”

“No,” Jebel said. “I’ll quest in your name. If I die, you’ll be honoured. If I fail and survive, I give my word that I’ll never come back.”

Debbat was excited. No one had ever quested in her name. Her friends would be jealous when they found out, even if the quester was only pathetic Jebel Rum.

“Very well,” Debbat said. “I’ll ask him. I’ll wait until he’s eaten — he’s always in a good mood then. Return tonight and bring your slave.”

“What slave?” Jebel frowned.

Debbat gave him a withering look. “You can’t face Sabbah Eid without a slave, or have you forgotten? Maybe I–”

“Of course,” Jebel interrupted. “I’ll sort that out, then return… when? Eight of the clock?”

“Make it nine.” Debbat turned back to her roses.

Jebel hung in the tree a few more moments, watching Debbat’s bare shoulders and the curve of her neck. He let himself dream of a future where he won the mukhayret, claimed Debbat Alg and became executioner. Then he shook his head and slid down the tree. He had to find a slave, but it wouldn’t be easy. To complete his quest, he would need to kill the person who came with him. He had no idea how he could convince a man to let himself be sacrificed by Jebel to the fire god, Sabbah Eid.

FOUR

Fruth was a town for slaves in the north-east of Wadi, separated from the rest of the city by a tall, thick fence. The town had been built to cut down on running costs, which had been crippling the lords and ladies of Wadi. In the past, slaves lived with their owners, who had to feed and clothe them. But as the slaves bred and the conquering Um Aineh added more to their stock every year, it reached a point where the um Wadi could not afford to support them all. More than one rich family had ended up destituting itself in a desperate attempt to run a large household of hungry slaves.

Fruth was the answer, a town of cheap, poorly built houses where the slaves could live when they were not hard at work. Some slaves were required by their masters and mistresses at all times, and were kept close at hand, but most were only of use in normal working hours. At the end of each shift, those slaves were sent back to Fruth, where they enjoyed a certain degree of freedom.

Every family in Wadi supplied small amounts of food and drink to Fruth by way of a tax, and the slaves were left to fight among themselves to decide how these provisions were distributed. The strong thrived and were of more use to their masters since they were healthy and relatively content. The weak… well, the nations of Makhras were better off without them, and such slaves could be easily replaced. Abu Rashrasha and Abu Kheshabah were broken, defeated countries and regiments were regularly sent there on slaving raids for fresh supplies.

Fruth was always crowded in the evening, as the bulk of the workers made their way home. The narrow streets were packed tight with slaves drinking, eating, dancing, praying, arguing, fighting. Hordes of dirty children ran wild. Emaciated, exhausted women washed clothes by the wells and hung them up to dry from ropes overhead. Men with cracked hands and creaking backs chewed tobacco and sipped weak wine. Skinned animals roasted on spits.

When Jebel entered Fruth, the guards on the gate paid him no attention. Many um Wadi slipped into Fruth at night with a few silver swagah in their pockets, to go in search of girls and other entertainment.

Jebel had been to Fruth on school trips, but only during the day when it was quieter. He was disgusted by the press of filthy bodies, the noise, the dirt, the stench. Each street had a large, shared toilet pit. Every few minutes slaves lifted their dresses or dropped their trousers and squatted over a pit in plain view of all passers-by. To Jebel, they were worse than animals.

Jebel spent half an hour stumbling through the jostling streets, his nerves shredding with the passing minutes. Everything had happened too quickly. He hadn’t had time to think through all the problems of undertaking a quest. Now that he considered it, he began to realise the true extent of the challenge.

I must be mad, he thought. Even grown men think twice — several times! — before questing to Tubaygat. I’ll need a slave, swagah, clothes, weapons… It’s impossible! I can’t do it!

He wanted to back out, but it was too late. He had already told Bastina and Debbat about his decision. Bastina wouldn’t be a problem if he changed his mind, but Debbat would be merciless. She’d tell everyone. Better to kill himself and…

“No,” he muttered. “Take it a step at a time. If I can find a slave, I’ll deal with the next problem. Then the problem after that, and the one after that, and…”

Jebel studied the slaves curiously as he wandered. He hadn’t much experience of these low people. His father didn’t trust slaves and preferred to pay servants to look after his children.

Most were from Abu Rashrasha or Abu Kheshabah. They were pale, pasty creatures, some the colour of milk, with limp, straight hair, in many cases blond or ginger. Most of them had blue or green eyes and they were less physically developed than other tribes of the Eastern Nations, small and slender.

Jebel knew little about slaves, what their lives were like, whether they had one wife, two or twenty. He didn’t even know if they married. How should he approach one and convince him to travel to Tubaygat and give up his life for the glory of Jebel Rum? He couldn’t bribe the slave — even if he had money, it wouldn’t be much good. “I’ll pay you fifty gold swagah when you’re dead.” Ludicrous!

Jebel had heard many stories about famous questers, how they’d journeyed to Tubaygat, the adventures they’d faced, their defeats and conquests. But he’d never been told how they picked their sacrificial companions.

Jebel stopped outside one of the noisier houses. The rooms were brightly lit and the thin curtains were a mix of vivid pinks, blues and greens. Women hovered outside, calling to men, inviting them in for drinks and company.

Perhaps he could pay one of the women to accompany him. Questers normally took a male slave, but it wasn’t obligatory. A woman could be sacrificed too. Jebel could lie, tell her he wanted her for companionship, then…

No. A quester had to be pure. It would be shameful to trick a slave. Besides, while he didn’t know the price of such women, he was sure he couldn’t afford to pay one to travel with him for months on end.

While Jebel considered his dilemma, the cloth over the doorway was swept back and an um Wadi staggered out, a woman on each arm. He was laughing and the women were pouring wine into his mouth.

“Take me where there’s song!” the man shouted. He was drunk, but not entirely senseless. “This is a night for singing!”

“I can think of better things than singing,” one of the women purred.

The man laughed. “Later. First I want to…” He spotted Jebel and beamed. “Do you wish to join our party, young one?”

Jebel stiffened and turned to leave.

“Wait!” the man barked, spotting the tattoo on Jebel’s shoulder. “You’re one of Rashed Rum’s boys, aren’t you?”

“Who’s asking?” Jebel replied cautiously — it was never wise to reveal your identity to a stranger.

“J’An Nasrim,” the man said, pushing the women away. They yelled angrily, but he ignored them and walked over to grasp Jebel warmly. “Surely you remember your father’s old rogue of a friend.”

“Of course,” Jebel said, smiling. “It is good to see you, sir. I’m Jebel, his youngest son.”

J’An Nasrim and his father sometimes played cards together. J’An was a trader who travelled widely. Rashed Rum enjoyed listening to his tales of far-off lands, even though he always said the pirate’s neck would wind up on his block one day.

“What are you doing in Fruth?” J’An asked. He waved a hand at the women. “On the prowl?”

“No, sir,” Jebel chuckled. “I…” He coughed. “I have business here.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it,” J’An said, putting his palms together in the age-old sign of goodwill.

J’An Nasrim was on his way back to the women when Jebel spoke quickly. “Sir, I need help. I wouldn’t ask except…” He trailed off into silence.

“Except there’s nobody else around!” J’An laughed. He cast a curious eye over Jebel, then clapped his hands. “Away, wenches. This young um Wadi requires my advice. I’ll track you down later if I can find my way back.”

The women grumbled, but J’An tossed some swagah their way and that calmed their temper. Wrapping an arm around Jebel, he led him to a quieter square, where they could sit on a warped bench and talk without having to shout.

“So,” J’An said when they were settled, “how can I be of help?”

Jebel wasn’t sure how to start. After a short silence, he blurted out, “I’m going on a quest.”

J’An squinted. “You’re a little on the young side, but old enough I guess. You want me to share a few travel tips with you?”

“No. The quest is… it’s not straightforward… I mean… oh, I’m going to Tubaygat!” Jebel cried. “I want to petition Sabbah Eid.”

J’An Nasrim blinked. A few seconds later, he blinked again. “Well,” he said, scratching the tattoo of a woman on his left arm. “Tubaygat… I can’t help you with that. Never been further north than Disi, and that was by boat. Dangerous country, Abu Saga.”

“I know,” Jebel said. “But that’s not what I wanted to ask you about. I’m stuck already. I need a slave, but I’ve no idea how to get one.”

J’An frowned. “Can’t your father help?”

“He doesn’t know,” Jebel whispered.

J’An’s frown deepened, then cleared. “Of course. I heard about Rashed’s announcement. Early retirement, so his sons might compete for the honour of replacing him. But the way I heard it, he only spoke of his eldest boys.”

“Word of my humiliation has even made it to Fruth,” Jebel snarled.

“Never underestimate those who serve,” J’An said. “Slaves here often know of city intrigues hours before anybody else.”

J’An leant back, thoughtfully rubbing a tattooed ear. He was an especially dark-skinned man, but his eyes were bright blue, evidence that one of his ancestors had come from a foreign land.

“You’ll find Sabbah Eid and ask him to make you invincible and strong,” J’An said. “Then you’ll come back, win the mukhayret and earn the respect of your father. Is that the sum of it?”

“Pretty much,” Jebel said uneasily.

“A fool’s quest,” snorted J’An.

“I’m no fool,” Jebel protested. “I have to win back my good name. My father disgraced me and I want to be able to walk with pride again.”

“And if you die on the quest?” J’An asked.

Jebel shrugged. “At least I’ll die as a proud um Wadi.”

J’An shook his head. “I normally never tell another man his business, but…” He scowled. “No. I won’t this time either. I think you’re mad, but on your head be it. You’re old enough to waste your life if you wish. I don’t have the right to stop you, so tell me how I can help.”

“I need a slave,” Jebel said once more. “I think I can get the permission of the high lord to quest, but I have no one to sacrifice. The trouble is, I’ve no idea–”

“–how to convince a slave to travel with you.” J’An Nasrim nodded. “That’s one of the problems with questing to Tubaygat. I’m sure you’re not the first to struggle with it. Of course, it doesn’t have to be a slave. Have you any close friends who would go with you and lay down their lives on your behalf?”

“No.”

“Then a slave it must be. You know nothing of the world, so you need someone who has travelled and fought, a man of experience and honour, who won’t swear to serve you faithfully, then slice your throat open once he’s safely out of Abu Aineh. You plan to quest via Abu Nekhele?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Jebel said sheepishly.

“That’s the safest route,” said J’An. “But slavery’s forbidden in Abu Nekhele. You’ll need a man you can trust like a brother, one with a strong reason not to turn on you and seize his freedom.”

J’An fell silent, considering the boy’s problem. If he’d been entirely sober, he might have marched Jebel back to his father. But wine has a way of making men act like boys, so J’An found himself taking the quest seriously.

“Tel Hesani,” he said eventually.

“A slave?” Jebel asked.

“The finest I’ve ever known,” J’An said, dragging Jebel to his feet. “His father was Um Rashrasha, a trader who spent most of his time in Abu Kheshabah, where Tel was born. Tel’s father had three wives already when he met Tel’s mother, the maximum allowed by his people, so he could only keep her as a mistress. She was his favourite, and he raised Tel the same way as he would have a legitimate son. His wives were jealous of the pair. When Tel’s father died, his widows sold Tel and his mother to slavers. They were bought by different owners and he never saw her again. He has spent the rest of his life as a slave, but he is a noble and just man, a credit to the memory of his father.

“I travelled with Tel several years ago,” J’An said, guiding Jebel through the muddy streets. “He saved my life in Abu Safafaha. I bought him and his family upon our return and petitioned the high lord for his freedom.”

J’An sighed. “I have more enemies than friends in Wadi. I’ve offended a lot of powerful people in my time. They haven’t been able to have me executed yet, but they conspire against me whenever they can. Since I spend so much of my life on the road or seas, those opportunities are few and far between. One of their chances to spite me came when I asked the high lord to free Tel Hesani and his family. My enemies convinced him to deny my request and to revoke my right of ownership — they cooked up some charge about me swindling their original owner. The family was sold off to one of my foes.

“Tel’s new master is working him to death,” J’An said bitterly. “Soon his time will run out. When it does, his wife and daughters will be put to work in houses like the one I was coming from when I met you, and his son will be shipped off to Abu Saga to perish down the mines.”

J’An fell silent, his dark, bleak face all but invisible in the waning evening light. The story hadn’t moved Jebel – he found it hard to care about the fate of a slave – but he shook his head glumly and tutted, since he felt that was expected of him.

They came to a large house with small windows and a toilet pit in front. The area around the pit was heavily coated with lime, but the stench was still incredibly foul. Jebel gagged, but J’An Nasrim ignored the fumes and steered the boy into the house.

J’An and Jebel passed two rooms littered with sleeping mats — in Fruth, most houses were shared by a variety of families. In the second room a couple were kissing. Jebel averted his eyes and hurried after J’An up a rickety set of stairs to the first floor, then up another set to the second floor. They arrived at a doorway, dozens of long strips of coloured rope hanging from the cross-beam.

“Entrance requested!” J’An shouted.

There was a brief pause, then a reply. “Entrance granted.”

J’An pushed through the strips of rope and Jebel followed. He found himself in a small room with seven sleeping mats stacked by one of the walls. Each wall had been painted a different colour and paintings hung in many places. There was a round table in the centre, knocked together from an old barrel top. Food was laid on it — bread, dripping, boiled pigs’ hoofs, rice. A feast by Fruth standards.

Around the table sat five children – the oldest no more than eight or nine – a plump woman and a man. Jebel was only interested in the man. Taller than most slaves, almost the height of an Um Aineh, he had light brown hair cut short, pale brown eyes, a trim beard, broad hands, large feet and tight, work-honed muscles. He wore no tunic, only a long pair of trousers. He was pale-skinned, but tanned from working outside. His left cheek bore the tattoo of a slave — a dog’s skull. There were four tattoos on his lower right arm, the marks of various owners.

“Greetings,” J’An said, bowing his head as if speaking to an equal.

“Greetings,” Tel Hesani replied quietly.

Tel Hesani’s wife and children didn’t speak, and wouldn’t unless their visitor addressed them, as was the custom.

“Would you care for something to eat?” Tel Hesani asked as Jebel and J’An sat on the floor around the table.

“No, thank you,” said J’An.

Jebel was hungry – he hadn’t eaten since morning – but he was too proud to share a slave’s food, so he shook his head and tried to stop his stomach growling.

“I am glad to see you,” Tel Hesani said. “I had heard of your return to Wadi and hoped you would call to see us.”

“Don’t I always?” J’An said. “I meant to come last night, but I’ve been busy. I spent most of my last trip in the al-Breira and there are precious few women on those mountains! I’ve been making up for lost time. I have presents for Murasa and the children, but I’ve not had time to unpack. I’ll bring them over soon.”

“You are too good to us, sir,” said Tel Hesani.

J’An frowned. “Why so formal?”

“Your companion…” Tel Hesani glanced at Jebel, then lowered his gaze.

J’An smiled. “Don’t worry. This is Jebel Rum, son of an old friend of mine — Rashed Rum, the executioner.”

“I didn’t know you had such highly placed friends,” Tel Hesani said, reaching for a piece of bread, looking more relaxed.

“I don’t have many,” J’An said. “But Rashed doesn’t worry about politics. He picks his own friends and, given his rank, there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

J’An and Tel Hesani spent a while catching up. J’An told the slave where he’d been on his most recent trip. Tel Hesani spoke in low tones of life on the docks, and the work his wife and children — the three eldest had all been assigned jobs by their owner — were forced to endure each day. Before they became too involved in discussions, J’An got down to the real business of the evening.

“Jebel’s heading off on a quest tonight, the most ambitious of all, to the home of Sabbah Eid.”

“I have heard of Sabbah Eid,” Tel Hesani said. “He is one of your gods.”

“The father of all gods,” J’An nodded. “While the others wage eternal war in the heavens, Sabbah Eid resides on Makhras, beneath Tubaygat in the mountains of the al-Meata, the source of the mightiest of all rivers, the as-Sudat.”

“I know the place,” Tel Hesani said, “but my people have a different name for that mountain. We believe God rested there when he came to Makhras. From the peak he observed all the suffering in the world. He was moved to tears, and his tears became the waters of the great river.”

“Which god is that?” Jebel asked.

“The one God,” Tel Hesani said, his calm gaze resting on the boy.

“The Um Kheshabah believe there’s just a single god,” J’An explained, then leant forward. “How much do you know of the quest to Tubaygat?”

“Not much,” the slave shrugged. “I heard that the god who allegedly lives there grants immortality to those who quest successfully to see him.”

“Not immortality,” J’An said. “Invincibility. They don’t live any longer than normal, but they can’t be harmed by ordinary weapons and they have the power and strength to subdue any man who challenges them.”

“Is that why you quest?” Tel Hesani asked Jebel. “To bend men to your will?”

“I just want to be the new executioner,” Jebel growled, not liking the slave’s tone. If Tel Hesani had spoken to him like this anywhere else, Jebel would have had him whipped. But J’An Nasrim regarded this slave as a friend and Jebel had to respect that while in the trader’s company.

“Jebel has been shamed,” J’An said. “He quests to redeem his honour.”

“Then I wish you luck,” Tel Hesani said, putting his hands together.

“He’ll need more than luck,” J’An snorted. “The road to Tubaygat is lined with hardships. Virtually all questers die on the way or return defeated.”

“I don’t understand,” Tel Hesani said. “Surely you just sail up the as-Sudat to the base of the al-Meata and climb from there?”

“That wouldn’t be much of a quest,” J’An laughed. “Questers are forbidden the use of any river. They must quest on foot.”

Tel Hesani smiled wryly. “Your people are cruel, but inventive.”

“How dare you!” Jebel shouted, unable to restrain himself any longer. “You’ve insulted the Um Aineh! I’ll have you executed!” He tried to get up, but J’An laid a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down.

“You must learn to control your temper,” J’An said lightly.

“But he insulted us!”

“Only a mild insult. And he has a point.”

“He’s a slave!”

“Yes. But this is his home. We are guests here. He has the right to voice his opinion in this room. Our laws allow for those few privileges at least.”

“But he’s a slave,” Jebel said again. “He has no rights.”

“In my view he does,” J’An said and there was steel in his tone now. “As your elder, I expect you to bow to me on this.”

Jebel stared sullenly at the older man, then dropped his gaze and placed the palm of his left hand on his forehead. “I beg pardon,” he muttered.

“Granted,” J’An said, then faced Tel Hesani again. “We’re more inventive than you think. It’s not enough for the quester to make his way to Tubaygat. To petition Sabbah Eid, he must make a human sacrifice. Sometimes a friend will travel with him to offer himself up — the victims are guaranteed an afterlife and a prominent place by the side of their favoured god. But usually it’s a slave.”

“I see.” Tel Hesani broke off another chunk of bread, smeared it in dripping, then watched the fat drip off the end of the bread. When the last drop had fallen, he brought the bread to his mouth and bit into it. He spoke while chewing. “Your cur has no friends, so he wants to buy a faithful hound of his own.”

Jebel’s breath caught in his throat. His first impulse was to grab a weapon and strike the slave dead. But there were no knives on the table. As he wildly considered his options – perhaps he could use a pig’s hoof as a makeshift club – J’An said, “Your mouth will get you into trouble one day.”

Tel Hesani smiled without humour. He rubbed a long, fresh welt on his back. “I’ve lived with trouble a long time now.”

J’An winced. “I tried again to buy you back,” he said. “I met an Um Saga trader in the al-Breira who was on his way to Wadi. I paid him to bid for you, hoping your master wouldn’t realise I was behind it. But his offer was rejected. He was told that all the swagah in Abu Aineh couldn’t buy you.”

“Your enemies hate with a vengeance,” Tel Hesani noted drily.

“They have nothing better to do than hate and scheme,” J’An said bitterly. The table shook from where he gripped it. “You’ll die on the docks soon. Your wife and daughters will be sold to the vilest bordello-keepers in Wadi and your son will perish down the mines in the al-Tawla.”

“A cheerless prediction,” Tel Hesani said softly. “But true.” He glanced at his family. They were staring at him expressionlessly.

“I can’t help you,” J’An said. “But I can save Murasa and your children.”

Tel Hesani’s round eyes narrowed. “You think that you can buy them?”

“Better. I can free them.”

Tel Hesani said nothing for a moment, a frown creasing his features. Finally he whispered, “How?”

“A quester to Tubaygat can’t be denied the services of his chosen slave,” J’An said. “If you agree to travel with Jebel, there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it. Your wife and children will also be assigned to him. Jebel will grant them their freedom before you leave.”

Murasa gasped and clutched her husband’s arm. He said nothing, only set his steady gaze on Jebel Rum and observed the boy silently.

Jebel thought about what J’An Nasrim had said, and how the slave had called him a cur. Then he looked at J’An and said, “I don’t agree to this.”

“You have no choice,” J’An responded. “You need a slave. I’m offering you Tel Hesani. This is the price of his obedience.”

“If I set his family free, what’s to stop him killing me in my sleep and slipping away to join them?” Jebel asked.

“I give you my word that he won’t,” J’An growled.

Jebel lowered his head and placed his palm on his forehead. “I beg pardon, but your word isn’t enough. I don’t know this slave. I don’t like him. I certainly can’t trust him.”

“Listen to me, you young–” J’An roared.

“No,” Tel Hesani cut in. “The boy is right. He must have a real assurance.”

J’An let out a shaky breath. “Then you accept?” he asked Tel Hesani.

The slave shrugged. “I have already accepted death. Whether I die on the docks or on a crazy quest is of no consequence. But if I can save my family by going on the quest, then obviously I shall.”

J’An faced Jebel again. “What assurance will satisfy you?”

“I don’t know,” Jebel said, head in a spin.

“How about holding his family here for a year?” suggested J’An.

“And if Tel Hesani kills me tomorrow, then waits a year to link up with them?”

J’An cursed. “I’m sorry I ever offered to help. Let’s just forget about–”

“Wait,” Murasa said, speaking out of turn. All of the men looked at her in surprise. She was studying Jebel. Her eyes were bright green and her cheeks were fiery red. But her lips were pale as ice when she spoke. “Um Aineh have spirit witches, crones who can communicate with the dead, yes?”

“Yes,” Jebel said.

“If you accept my husband as your slave and turn us over to your father, he can hold us captive for a year. If you return, you’ll free us. If not, an Um Aineh witch will try to contact your spirit. If my husband served you well, you’ll tell her and we shall be freed. If, on the other hand, my husband betrayed you, or if the witch cannot make contact, we will go to the executioner’s block.”

“No!” Tel Hesani snapped. “Those witches are fakes. They can’t speak to the dead. They say what the person paying them wants to hear. J’An Nasrim’s enemies will bribe them to say I killed the boy.”

“Perhaps,” Murasa agreed. “But at least this way we have hope. Also, if the worst comes to the worst, I would rather die cleanly, with my children by my side, than perish slowly and in degrading conditions, cut off from them, alone.”

Murasa fell silent and Jebel gawped at her. He’d never heard a slave speak with such dignity. He’d never thought a slave could speak in such a way.

“It’s a fair proposal,” said J’An Nasrim. “I’ll make sure I’m here for the mukhayret. If you don’t return, I’ll try to have a neutral witch appointed. Tel Hesani is a faithful husband and father. If you won’t trust my word, will you trust the bond between a man and those he loves?”

Jebel had been brought up to believe that slaves knew nothing of love or duty, but he could see the pain in Tel Hesani’s eyes.

“I agree,” he blurted. “If he comes with me and lets me sacrifice him, I’ll free his family. If we fail, and he dies trying to save me, I’ll tell the witch of it if I can. But if he betrays me…”

Jebel looked at the children and drew a finger across his throat.

“So be it,” Tel Hesani said quietly. “When must we leave?”