The Thin Executioner

“There’s more to a path than what you see on a map,” Tel Hesani replied. “What of the Um Nekhele? Your nations are not currently at war, but old hatreds linger, especially in the central areas of the country. And it would take much longer. If we follow the as-Surout, we should reach the western entrance of Abu Siq in two months or thereabouts.”

“That long?” Jebel exclaimed.

“We must travel on foot,” Tel Hesani reminded him. “And as you pointed out, it is marshy, treacherous land north-west of the border. It will take at least two months, maybe ten weeks. But if we follow the as-Sudat, it will take four months.”

“That’s too long,” Jebel said. “I’ve got to be back in Wadi within a year.”

“Quite,” the slave murmured. “So we go through the swamp?”

Jebel pulled a face. “Very well.”

Tel Hesani put his finger back on the map, then moved it slowly north-east from the town of Hassah, to the al-Attieg. The mountains were sometimes referred to as the Great Wall, since legends claimed they were created by the gods in the time before mankind, to separate two violent, warring factions.

“Ideally we’d sail along the as-Sudat through the al-Attieg gorge,” Tel Hesani said. “But as we are not allowed to use a boat, we’ll have to take the siq.”

“Do we have to?” Jebel asked. “Couldn’t we climb over the mountains instead?”

“That would be suicide,” Tel Hesani said.

“But will the Um Siq let us pass?”

Tel Hesani shrugged. “They do not take kindly to travellers. But we are on a quest. They might respect that and grant us passage.”

“If they don’t?” Jebel pressed.

“We could sail through the gorge,” Tel Hesani suggested.

“That’s not permitted,” Jebel growled. “You know the terms of the quest.”

“Yes,” the slave sighed. “But who would see us?”

“Sabbah Eid,” Jebel said. “If I’ve broken the terms when I petition him, he’ll strike me dead and my spirit will burn for a thousand generations.”

Tel Hesani glanced up from the map. “Do you really believe that a god lives inside the mountain?”

Jebel frowned. “It’s not a matter of belief. He does live there.”

Tel Hesani grunted and returned to the map. “If we make it past Abu Siq, the path’s straightforward. We cut west, then follow the as-Sudat up to where it meets the al-Meata, then track the river back to its source in Tubaygat.”

“What about the Um Saga?” Jebel said. “Abu Saga’s full of slavers looking for workers to throw down their mines. How can we guarantee safe passage?”

“We can’t,” Tel Hesani said grimly. “We’ll have to travel by night and hope we don’t fall foul of the slavers.”

“How long will it take in total?” Jebel asked.

Tel Hesani scratched his beard. “We can’t factor in all of the obstacles which we’re sure to run into. The weather might work against us — if we get delayed on the way to Abu Siq, it will be winter and the siq might be impassable. And it will definitely be winter or early spring when we hit the al-Meata. Snowstorms or floods could bar our progress…

“At best, eight months,” he guessed. “More likely ten. If we manage that, we should be able to sail back in time for the mukhayret. Rather,” he added with a bitter smile, “you can sail back. I will be staying in Tubaygat.”

Jebel waved away the slave’s last comment. He was thinking hard. “Eight to ten months… It’s going to be tight. What if I can’t get back in time?”

Tel Hesani shrugged. “I will have escorted you to Tubaygat and let you kill me, upholding my part of the bargain. What happens after that is your concern. Come,” the slave said, rolling up the map. “Let’s sort out our supplies and move on. If we can cover a few miles before midday, it will be a good start.”

Jebel nodded wearily. He felt that the world was larger and more threatening than he’d ever imagined. But he didn’t want to look weak in front of Tel Hesani, so he splashed water over his face, then followed his slave back into the market to buy the goods which they would need to help them navigate the first leg of their journey into the perilous unknown.

EIGHT

The journey north through Abu Aineh was a joy. As a quester to Tubaygat, Jebel was fêted in every village and town that he passed through. The reaction from the um Surout — those who lived by the banks of the river — was the same everywhere. Men and women greeted Jebel politely, but with no great interest at first. Their gaze flickered to his arms, searching for the tattoos which would tell what family he was from, if he had a job and so on. They’d note the small W on his neck with no surprise — um Wadi were plentiful here. But eyebrows were raised when they saw the tattoo of the axe on his left shoulder, then shot up even higher when they spotted the coiled serpent on his lower right arm.

As soon as people realised that Jebel was on a quest to Tubaygat, word spread like wildfire. Within minutes a crowd would form. Everyone wanted to offer him a bed or food, to touch his hand and earn good luck. If any thought it curious that such a skinny boy had undertaken so hazardous a quest, they kept their doubts to themselves. He was the Wadi executioner’s son and he bore the brand of a quester. He was due their unreserved respect and they afforded it him.

The praise and gifts of the river folk quickly went to Jebel’s head. He had been withdrawn and sullen when they left Wadi. Tel Hesani had taken control of the quest, organised their supplies, decided how far they marched each day, when they slept and ate. The slave never acted without Jebel’s permission, always careful to ask if “my young master” agreed. But he was clearly in charge and Jebel felt the way he did in school.

He was lonely too. Tel Hesani was a man of few words (at least around Jebel) and there was nobody else to talk with. Jebel missed his friends, his brothers, Debbat Alg, even the melancholy Bastina. The days were long and dull. They marched steadily, the scenery unchanging, stopping only to eat, rest and sleep. His mind wandered while they marched, but since he’d never been overly imaginative, he found it hard to amuse himself. He was also sore from sleeping on a rough mat. He had seriously started to think about abandoning the quest and throwing himself into the as-Surout.

But then came the villages and towns, the gasps, the admiration, the fine beds, clothes and food. Feasts were dedicated to him and vintage wines uncorked in his honour. After his first few glasses, he would regale his audience with fanciful tales of why he had undertaken the quest. If his listeners sensed the hollowness of his words, they never challenged him. Jebel soon started to believe his own stories and came to think that there was more to his character than he’d imagined in the past.

Girls also looked at Jebel in a new way. Wherever he stopped, he found scores of young women clad in their finest blouses and dresses, fussing over him, fighting among themselves to carry a tray to him or pour his wine. They smiled at Jebel all the time, fluttering their eyelashes, artfully pursing their lips.

The advances took Jebel by surprise initially. He blushed and kept his eyes low. But now he accepted the flirting and openly ogled the girls who paraded before him, choosing the prettiest and beckoning her forward, gracing her by letting her wait on him in front of her friends.

Jebel wasn’t sure what Tel Hesani got up to while he was being toasted by the locals and enjoying the company of their fairest maids. The slave would vanish from Jebel’s sight and thoughts once the first glass of wine was poured. In the morning, Tel Hesani would be waiting for him outside the hut where Jebel had spent the night. After a long, late breakfast and an extended series of farewells, they would take to the road again, often not until early afternoon, and make their leisurely way to the next settlement.

When Jebel occasionally wondered about Tel Hesani, he assumed that the Um Kheshabah was enjoying himself among the slaves and servants, basking in his master’s fame. One evening, in a small town, he discovered that wasn’t quite the case.

Jebel was sipping wine on a veranda overlooking the as-Surout. The high lord of the town had a collection of wines from all over Makhras, some from countries Jebel had never heard of. He’d been drinking more than usual and was feeling light-headed. A green-eyed, willowy maid had danced seductively for him earlier and topped up his glass more often than was necessary, breathing softly in his face as she leant over him with the bottle. He was thinking about the way she had looked at him, and her whispered promise to bring him more wine in his hut later, when he was alone.

It wouldn’t be polite to go to bed before nightfall, so Jebel remained seated and favoured the high lord with some of his wilder tales. But all the time his gaze was on the girl with the green eyes. He couldn’t wait for night. He wished he had the power to control the sun — he’d make it sink a lot faster if he could!

After another glass of wine, he excused himself and slipped down to the river to relieve himself. Once he was done admiring the ripples he had made, he turned to head back to the veranda, only to find Tel Hesani blocking his way.

“I trust the wine is to your satisfaction, master,” the slave said.

“Very much so.” Jebel belched and frowned at Tel Hesani. “I’m tired of those trousers. Replace them with a tunic. And make sure it covers your chest — it’s not proper for a slave to run around half-naked. You’re not working on the docks any longer, you know.”

“Indeed, my lord.” Tel Hesani smiled. “I thank you for your advice, but I prefer trousers. In my country, this is how men dress.”

“This isn’t your country,” Jebel snarled, “and that wasn’t advice — it was an order. I expect you to be wearing a tunic in the morning. If not, I’ll have you whipped.”

Tel Hesani’s smile didn’t falter. “My young master speaks clearly, for which I am grateful. I am glad that your senses are intact, despite all the wine you’ve been drinking. Perhaps you are sober enough to heed my warning and be saved.”

“What are you talking about?” Jebel growled. “How dare you presume to warn me. Forget about morning. I’ll have you whipped now, you son of a–”

“Be careful, sire,” Tel Hesani said, lips tightening. “These people know you as a noble quester. If I was whipped, I might cry out and tell them a different story of a sorry boy who wants to reclaim his lost honour.”

Jebel’s eyes flashed. “I won’t stand for such insolence. I’m going to have the flesh flayed from your back, you worthless piece of–”

“The girl who has been dancing for you is no maid,” Tel Hesani interrupted. “I have been speaking with the servants. They tell me she had a boyfriend. They were very close, but he left when she pressed him to marry her. If she wants to wed a different man later, she’ll have to take a test to prove her maidenhood, but it’s a test she will fail.”

Tel Hesani paused to make sure that had sunk in. Although Jebel’s eyes were swimming in their sockets, the slave could see that the boy was paying attention.

“It seems to me,” he continued, “that the girl is scheming to find a way out of her predicament. I think she plans to come to you in your hut tonight, then claim that you attacked her. If her accusation is accepted, she will still be considered a maid by law. You will be executed and she’ll be free to marry.”

Jebel croaked, “How do you know this?”

“I made enquiries,” Tel Hesani said, “as I have everywhere we’ve stopped. Such plots are not uncommon. You wouldn’t be the first young man to lose his head to the wiles of a desperate woman.”

“I thought you just drank and had a good time,” Jebel said.

“No. I am your guide and guardian. Our path is lined with danger, but not all of the dangers are obvious. It is my duty to protect you from every possible threat. I have gone in search of gossip among the servants of each house where we have sought shelter. When I’ve had to, I’ve bribed them with swagah taken from my master’s pouch — I trust you will not hold that against me?”

Jebel shook his head numbly. He didn’t know what to say. He felt like he should thank Tel Hesani, but that was ridiculous. Jebel had been taught to believe that slaves should obey their master’s every request without expectation of a reward. As a young boy, he had once thanked a slave at his school for cleaning his wound when he fell and cut his knee. A teacher heard, whipped Jebel and sent him home in disgrace. Jebel’s father whipped him too. The boy never thanked a slave again after that.

“I’ll keep my door barred tonight,” Jebel muttered.

“That would be wise, my lord,” Tel Hesani said smoothly. “It would be even wiser, if I may be so bold, to avoid towns like this for a while. We have fallen behind schedule. We should press on and pick up our pace.”

Jebel nodded, feeling very small and childish. “We’ll rise at dawn and push ahead as fast as we can, no more stopping to chat with these accursed um Surout.”

“One last thing, sire,” Tel Hesani said as Jebel passed. “Is there any particular style of tunic you wish me to wear tomorrow?”

Jebel grimaced. “You can keep wearing your damn trousers.”

“You are most generous, young master,” Tel Hesani said and bowed respectfully as a sullen Jebel trudged back to the veranda to scowl at the green-eyed temptress who had almost seduced him to his doom.

NINE

Shihat was a godsforsaken eyesore. The northernmost town of Abu Aineh, it was at the meeting point of three nations, so it should have been a vibrant, exciting city, where the best of different cultures mixed and merged. But the eastern lands of Abu Nekhele were swampy and fetid. The wealthier Um Nekhele lived further west, and the majority of trade went via the as-Sudat. As for Abu Safafaha, that was a country of savages, and the hardened traders crossing the border to sell skins and rare creatures or birds brought nothing of cultural value to the town.

Shihat was an ugly maze of barracks, trade centres and markets. Soldiers patrolled the streets, checking papers, searching for border rats. Any trader entering Abu Aineh by the as-Surout had to stop in Shihat to pay a tithe. Without signed, stamped papers to prove payment, they couldn’t leave the city.

It should have been a simple procedure, but corruption was rife. It wasn’t enough to present your wares and pay a tithe. You needed to bribe a string of officials and soldiers. Traders rarely made it out of Shihat in less than three days.

The streets were always full. Taverns and bordellos did a roaring business. Fights often broke out among frustrated travellers. Traders were mugged or killed. Mounds of rubbish were left to rot and wild dogs lapped from pools of blood.

After half an hour there, Jebel wanted to burn the place to the ground. It was even worse than Fruth, which he would have thought impossible just thirty minutes earlier.

“They live like animals,” he stormed to Tel Hesani, watching naked children chase a chicken down the middle of a street overflowing with sewage. When they caught the chicken, they ripped its head off and squirted each other with blood.

“Worse than animals,” Tel Hesani agreed.

“I can’t understand how they don’t all die from disease,” Jebel said.

“Many do,” Tel Hesani said. “Dozens die each week and are tossed into large pits on the outskirts of the town. If rumours are to be believed, local butchers raid those pits and feed cuts of the dead to their customers.”

Jebel almost vomited. “Did we bring food of our own?” he asked.

“We have strips of dried meat and canteens of fresh water,” said Tel Hesani. “We’ll find an inn and eat in our room.”

“Can’t we push on immediately?” Jebel asked.

“It will be night soon,” Tel Hesani said. “The border rats from Abu Nekhele and Abu Safafaha – traders who do not wish to pay a tithe, or who are transporting illegal goods – try to sneak around Shihat in the darkness. Soldiers hunt for them — it passes for sport up here. We would probably wind up with our throats cut and our bodies dumped in a marsh. Or worse.”

Jebel shuddered at the thought of ending up on a butcher’s hook. “So be it. But try to find a clean inn.”

“I will do my best, master, but it might be easier said than done.”

The pair spent the next hour trudging the grimy streets of Shihat, going from one rundown inn to another. All were overflowing with rowdy traders and ugly, leering women. Alcohol flowed more freely than water — in some inns they didn’t even bother with water, except to mop up the blood and mess.

“Let’s just take a room here,” Jebel said eventually as they were about to pass another filthy hovel. He had seen men staring at them and figured it was only a matter of time before someone stabbed him and laid claim to his slave.

Tel Hesani opened the door for Jebel and bowed as the boy entered. Then he hurried in after him. Tel Hesani had travelled widely, but he’d never been in a place as foul as Shihat and he felt almost as edgy as Jebel did.

They found themselves in a large, squalid room. There was a bar at one end, where a group of men and women stood, chattering loudly and drinking from grimy mugs. Tables were set in rows in the middle of the room. A dead pig lay across one of them. Its stomach had been sliced open a day or two ago and three bloodstained, cackling children were rooting around inside its carcass, searching for any juicy tidbits which had been overlooked.

Closer to the door, people lay on mats and tried to sleep. It was difficult, what with drunks stumbling over them and cockroaches scurrying everywhere. There were cleaner mats by the walls, set on benches, but these were more expensive and only a few were occupied. One person on a mat was dead — an old woman, with skeletal limbs. Her body would be moved when the mat was needed and not before.

“Maybe we should take our chances with the border rats,” Jebel muttered.

“I’m tempted to agree with you, my lord,” Tel Hesani said. “But as disgusting as this hovel is, our chances of surviving the night are better inside than out.”

Jebel sighed. “Very well. Let’s get mats by the wall and make the best of things.”

“If I might make a suggestion, sire,” Tel Hesani murmured, “I think we should ask for a mat on the floor. We don’t want people to know that we’re wealthy.”

Jebel didn’t like the thought of sleeping on the floor, where cockroaches and other foul insects would have an easy time finding him, but he knew that it was sound advice. Nodding glumly, he fell in behind the slave and followed him as he headed for the bar to haggle for a mat.

As they were picking their way past the tables, a large man with a half-shaven head and two stumps where his little fingers should be put a hand on Tel Hesani’s chest and stopped him. The man was an Um Safafaha — every male in that country of savages had his little fingers amputated when he came of age. Looking up slowly from the card game he was involved in, the man sneered, “We don’t let slaves sleep here.”

Tel Hesani said nothing, only looked at his feet. There was nothing he could do in this position. Slaves had no rights in Abu Aineh. If the savage decided to kill him, only his master could fight or argue on his behalf.

“Please,” said Jebel quietly. “We don’t want trouble. We just want a mat.”

The Um Safafaha glared at Jebel, then looked around. Seeing no one else with the pair, he smiled viciously. “Are you travelling alone, boy?”

Jebel gulped. Like any honourable Um Aineh, he tried never to lie, but he sensed this wasn’t a time for the truth. “No,” he wheezed. “We’re part of a trading party.”

“I don’t think so,” the Um Safafaha said. The other men at the table had carried on playing, but something in the savage’s tone alerted them to the possibility of bloodshed. Since a good fight was the only thing better than a game of cards, they focused on the young um Wadi and his tall, silent slave.

Jebel was afraid, but he thought fast. In a fair fight, he wouldn’t stand a chance. He could try to bribe his way out, but if the Um Safafaha knew about the gold and silver they were carrying, he’d kill Jebel and take it all. If they ran, they’d never make it to the door. He thought about calling for the law, but he was sure that soldiers were well paid by the innkeepers to turn a blind eye to matters such as this.

Jebel decided to try a bluff. If he joked with the Um Safafaha and offered to get him a drink while they waited for the rest of his party to turn up, he might buy them some time. The savage would probably return to his game and lose interest in Jebel and Tel Hesani. But before he could chance the bluff, somebody spoke from the table beside him.

“I would be very careful, good sir, if I were you.”

“Most cautious indeed,” said another voice.

The Um Safafaha and Jebel both glanced sideways. They saw two sharply dressed men, one clad in a long green tunic, the other in a red shirt and blue trousers. The pair were eating from a basket of exotic food and supping wine from crystal glasses. They raised the glasses and said, “Your health, sir.”

The savage squinted. The men were of slight build, with delicate hands, the sort of people he’d normally knock over rather than walk around. But there was something about these two which made him wary.

“It don’t pay to poke your nose into other people’s business,” the Um Safafaha growled.

“That is the truth of truths, wise sir,” the man in the tunic agreed. “The very truth, indeed, by which my partner and I lead our modest lives. In your position, we would under any other circumstances take a grave view of one who presumed to interfere in our private affairs.”

“But in this case, my noble friend,” the other man said, smoothing back the hairs of a light moustache, “we feel compelled, in the spirit of cross-border relations, to intercede. We have spent much time in your country and developed something of a… I hesitate to say love… a fondness for your people.”

“In short,” the first man concluded, “we would rather not see you killed. Especially since you are so close to us that the spray of your blood might stain our recently purchased finery.”

The Um Safafaha blinked dumbly. Jebel and the rest of the card players stared. Tel Hesani kept his head down. The two men at the neighbouring table just smiled.

“You think this Um Aineh pup could kill me?” the Um Safafaha finally roared. “That’s an insult!”

“Not at all,” the man in the trousers tutted. “I am guessing you have not spent much time in Abu Aineh. You do not know how to interpret their tattoos.”

“The boy bears the brand of a quester,” the man in the tunic said, pointing to Jebel’s arm. “It is the mark of one questing to Tubaygat – Tubga, as I believe it’s known in your fair land.”

The Um Safafaha’s gaze lingered on Jebel’s coiled tattoo. When he looked up at the boy’s face again, he was less aggressive than before. “You’re going to the fire god’s mountain?” he asked.

Jebel nodded. The savage with the half-shaven head spat on the floor. Then he put his bare right foot on the spit and smeared it into the boards. Jebel knew enough about the man’s customs to recognise this as an apology.

“I was only having fun with you,” the Um Safafaha grunted.

“That’s all right,” Jebel said, trying not to stutter.

“Luck be with you on your quest,” the savage said, then turned back to his cards and glowered at the other players. No one was foolish enough to mock him and the game resumed as if it had never been interrupted.

Jebel turned to face the two men and smiled shakily. “Thank you,” he said.

“Think nothing of it,” the man in the tunic chuckled, then moved up the bench. “Would you care to sit with us and partake of our modest feast?”

“Your servant is welcome too,” the man in the trousers said.

“He’s a slave, not a servant,” Jebel said, taking his place.

“That makes no difference to us,” the man said. “We’re all slaves of the gods. We’d happily share our table with even the lowest of men. Who knows the day when we might be demoted to their ranks?”