The Thin Executioner

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.”