The Thin Executioner
Darren Shan
A brilliant story of swords, sand and sorcery from the endless imagination that brought you The Saga of Darren Shan and the Demonata. Excitement, action and terror…In a harsh, unforgiving world of slavery and glorified executions, one boy's humiliation leads him to embark on a perilous quest to the faraway lair of a mysterious god. It is a dark, brutal, nightmarish journey which few have ever survived. But to Jebel Rum, the risk is worth it…to retrieve his honour…to win the hand of the girl he loves…to wield unimaginable power…and to become…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?”
“Immediately,” said J’An. “You’ll accompany Jebel to the high lord’s palace. It’s best if I don’t come. I’ll go instead to see Rashed and tell him of your deal. Once Jebel’s quest has been approved, the two of you will start out.”
“Very well.” Tel Hesani pushed himself away from the table, stood and pointed to the doorway. “Will you wait outside? There are some things I wish to say to my family before we depart.”
J’An Nasrim put his hands together and bowed. A reluctant Jebel did the same. Then the pair withdrew, leaving Tel Hesani to bid farewell to the wife and children he would never see again after that night.
FIVE
The palace of the high lord was centuries old, although many new buildings had been added to it during that time. In one of the palace’s older, smaller rooms, Wadi Alg (all high lords took the name of the city) was digesting a delicious meal and studying a scrawny boy who stood trembling by the doorway. By his side his daughter Debbat was playing with her father’s hair and muttering in his ear.
“Imagine the glory it would bring to Wadi. It’s been a hundred years since Abu Aineh could last boast of a successful Tubaygat quester, and more than four hundred since an um Wadi had the honour.”
“True,” Wadi Alg nodded. “But this boy doesn’t look like he’ll break the barren run. He’s thin, daughter. I’ve seen more muscles on a frog.”
Debbat stifled a laugh, then slapped her father playfully. “You mustn’t say such things. Jebel might not look like much, but he’s Rashed Rum’s son and he plans to quest to Tubaygat. He deserves respect.”
“I apologise,” the high lord grinned, then glanced at his wife for advice.
“The boy’s a sorry example of an um Wadi,” Danafah Alg sneered. “But he is the executioner’s son. If we dismiss him, Rashed Rum might feel insulted. We should let him quest.”
“But he’s so…puny,” the high lord protested. “We’d be sending him to certain death.”
“At least he would die with honour,” Danafah said. “If he remains, what sort of a man will he become — a trader or teacher? That’s no life for an executioner’s son. Rashed Rum will thank us for this. The boy has been an embarrassment since birth. With our help, he can redeem himself and die for the glory of Wadi.”
“And if he returns in a couple of months, having made it no further than Shihat or the walls of Abu Judayda?” the high lord asked.
“Then his father can execute him and he’ll soon be forgotten,” the high lady replied calmly.
Wadi Alg wavered. He wasn’t sure that Rashed Rum would thank him for sending one of his sons to his death, even if the boy was a runt. But if he rejected the request, Jebel would be humiliated, which in many ways was even worse.
“Very well,” Wadi Alg muttered. “Bring the boy forward.”
Jebel advanced hesitantly. He couldn’t believe what he was doing. This morning he had been thinking only of kissing Debbat Alg. Now here he stood, facing the high lord, asking for permission to go on a quest which would almost surely result in his death.
Tel Hesani walked close behind Jebel, head bowed, no fear in his heart. He had accepted his fate and would go wherever it led him.
Jebel stopped opposite the high lord. Placing his trembling hands together, he said, “Thank you for welcoming me into your home, my lord.” His voice didn’t shake, and for that he silently gave thanks to the god of iron, Aiehn Asad.
“It’s a pleasure,” Wadi Alg said. “My daughter has often spoken highly of you. When I heard that you were here, I thought you had come to ask for her hand.”
Debbat’s eyes flared. Her father pretended to cough, so he could cover his mouth and hide his smirk. He knew his daughter’s game — she cared nothing for this boy and only wanted him to die questing in her name. By claiming she had an interest in the thin youth, he had taken her down a peg or two.
Jebel’s gaze slid incredulously to Debbat. His spirits soared at the thought that she might be in love with him, and his confidence flourished.
“My quest comes before all else, my lord. If I succeed, and Sabbah Eid blesses me, I’ll return and enter the mukhayret. If the day goes my way, I will be free to choose my wife and then…” He stopped short of saying he’d choose Debbat.
“Truly these are the words of a great lover,” Wadi Alg murmured, and had to fake another cough. “Is this your slave?” he asked once he’d recovered.
“It is,” Jebel said. “His name is Tel Hesani. I ask that he and his family be signed over to my ownership.”
The high lord frowned. “I know that name. Where have I…?” His wife leant over and whispered in his ear. Wadi Alg’s expression darkened. “I sense the hand of J’An Nasrim at work. Has he put you up to this?”
“No, my lord. The decision to quest was mine alone.”
“But did J’An Nasrim–”
“My lord,” Jebel interrupted. “How I know the slave and why I chose him is of no interest to anyone. He is fit for sacrifice. What else matters?”
Wadi Alg blinked, then smiled. “Well said,” he commended Jebel. “I know several enemies of J’An Nasrim who will be livid when they hear of this, but you are right — a quester is free to choose any slave in Abu Aineh.
“Very well.” The high lord leant forward. “If I grant you permission to quest, do you swear not to challenge my authority upon your return? If successful, will you settle for the post of executioner?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s settled.” The high lord clicked his fingers at a servant. “Feed the fire in the hall of quests and prepare the brand.”
A short while later, Jebel was standing inside the fabled hall of quests. Only the high lord, his most trusted servants and questers ever set foot here. Jebel had heard many tales of the hall, that it was a vast cavern lined with human skulls, guarded by a monstrous hound. But in fact the hall was a cramped, dark cellar, with a thin chimney rising from the centre above a small fire.
Wadi Alg moved closer to the fire, where two men were working on a pair of bellows. They were the only four people in the room — Tel Hesani waited outside with Debbat. The fire was kept burning at all times, but usually it was a dim glow. It was only fanned to life when it was needed to heat a branding iron.
“Don’t let its appearance deceive you,” the high lord said. “This is a holy room. That fire was originally ignited with an ember taken from Sabbah Eid’s den in Tubaygat. It’s a godly flame which we have kept alive these many centuries. If you swear to quest, you swear it to Sabbah Eid himself. If you are to change your mind, change it now before you give your word to a god.”
“I’m not going to change my mind,” Jebel said, although he wished that he could.
“So be it.” The head of a small branding iron had been rammed into the heart of the fire. Wadi Alg took hold of the handle. “Come here.” When the boy was standing beside him, Wadi Alg said, “State your name.”
“Jebel Rum.”
“Do you swear to quest to Tubaygat and petition Sabbah Eid?”
“I so swear.”
“Do you swear to abide by the laws of the quest?”
“I so swear.”
“Do you swear to give your life if necessary, and to have it held without value by all Um Aineh if you return unsuccessfully?”
“I so swear.”
“Then I grant you permission to quest.”
The high lord picked up the brand. The head glowed white-hot. Without any warning he grabbed Jebel’s right wrist, then drove the head of the brand into the flesh of Jebel’s forearm. Jebel had expected the pain, but even so he couldn’t help gasping and pulling away from the burning heat. Wadi Alg held Jebel firmly, only releasing him when the stench of burning flesh tickled the inside of his nostrils.
Jebel fell away from the high lord, clutching his arm to his chest, squeezing the flesh above the mark left by the brand, trying to cut off the pain. It was far worse than he’d anticipated.
“Show me your arm.” Wadi Alg examined the brand. It was an ugly red colour, but the lines were solid — a coiled, fiery cobra. “While you live, this will be your proudest mark,” the high lord said and he sounded almost envious. “Very few have the courage to quest to Tubaygat. Even if you fail, you can be proud of the choice you have made. All who see this brand will know you are a true um Wadi, and your family will boast of you from this day forward.”
Jebel took comfort in the high lord’s words. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he wiped sweat from his forehead. “Thank you for making it a clean brand, my lord,” he croaked. If the mark had come out smudged, he would have had to be branded again.
“I’ve had lots of practice,” Wadi Alg laughed, then slapped Jebel’s back and guided him to the door. “Come, let us prepare for your departure. You must leave Wadi immediately. Your quest starts now, Jebel Rum!”
SIX
Debbat didn’t believe Jebel would go through with it until she saw the brand. She was sure that he would back out at the last moment, and had prepared a number of insults to hurl after him as he fled the palace like a whipped dog. But when the boy staggered out of the hall of quests, shaken but upright, she realised this was for real, that he was truly going to quest in her name.
Debbat’s heart beat fast and her eyes twinkled. She almost raced forward and kissed Jebel. But then reality reasserted itself. The weedy youth would surely fail, and it wouldn’t do for people to think that she was fond of him. The winner of the mukhayret (J’An or J’Al — she still couldn’t decide!) might lose interest in her if he believed her heart belonged to another.
“Did it hurt?” she asked as they walked behind her father.
“A mere sting,” Jebel said, his teeth still chattering from the pain.
“What’s the hall of quests like?” Debbat whispered.
“Incredible,” Jebel lied.
“Were there heads? And a hound?”
Jebel didn’t answer, but by the way he smiled, she assumed that there had been — heads, hounds and a whole lot more. Why hadn’t she been born a man so that she could have quested too!
In the high lord’s chamber, Wadi Alg bid Jebel sit and went to a large chest. “You will need swagah,” he said, opening the chest to reveal a mound of coins.
“I have some already, my lord,” Jebel said. J’An Nasrim had presented him with a small bag of swagah before leaving to tell Jebel’s father the news.
“Some is good,” the high lord grunted. “More is better.” He filled a pouch with gold swagah and another with silver. Jebel accepted the gifts silently. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Guard the coins carefully,” the high lord said. “Divide them between yourself and your slave. The path to Tubaygat is never easy. Even a small fortune like this won’t ensure your safe passage. Don’t rely on swagah. Keep your wits about you too.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Jebel.
Wadi Alg thought about what other advice he could bestow upon the boy, then decided this wasn’t the time for a lecture. Instead he clapped Jebel on the back and dismissed him. He didn’t wish him luck – it wasn’t the custom.
Jebel retreated with Tel Hesani. Debbat slipped out after them. “I thought you might like to look at me one last time,” she preened, free to act as she liked now that there was no one to see.
“It won’t be the last time,” Jebel said confidently. Then he did something he wouldn’t have dared under any other circumstances — he bent forward and kissed the high maid. Debbat’s eyes widened, but she didn’t pull free. When Jebel released her, he was beaming dreamily.
“I could have you executed for that!” gasped Debbat.
“You won’t,” Jebel smirked.
Debbat glared at him, then giggled. “If you return, perhaps you’ll receive more than a kiss next time.”
With that she swept away, buzzing from the memory of the kiss but not sure if she should tell her friends about it — after all, it was only Jebel Rum, and who on Makhras had ever wanted to kiss him!
Jebel watched the high maid leave, wishing he could kiss her again. Then Tel Hesani said, “We must make a start, master.”
“It’s still early,” Jebel grumbled.
“We have much to do before we leave. We need to study a map, decide on our route, purchase supplies…”
“All right,” Jebel snarled. “Just don’t forget who’s in charge.”
“I would never presume to tell my young master his business,” said Tel Hesani. “But since I know more of the world than you, I urge you to heed my advice. That is, after all, one of the reasons why you chose me.”
Jebel thought about whipping Tel Hesani for his impudence. But when he gazed into the slave’s eyes, he hesitated. Jebel was certain the slave loved his wife and children, and would help the um Wadi for their sake. But slaves were savages at heart. He might forget his vow and strangle Jebel if pushed too far.
“Come on,” Jebel said, nudging ahead of the tall, pale-skinned man. “We have to drop your brood of rats off at my father’s before we leave.”
Tel Hesani didn’t respond to that, just followed with a wry smile.
Murasa and the children were waiting outside the servants’ entrance, and so, to Jebel’s surprise, was Bastina.
“I know what you’ve done,” Bastina said. “I feared you’d do something stupid, so I came here and Murasa told me about your deal.”
“It’s not stupid,” Jebel grunted. He thrust his arm out at the servant girl, so she could admire his brand. “See?”
Bastina didn’t even look at his arm. “You shouldn’t have done this,” she said softly. “There were other ways to redeem your honour.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jebel huffed. “You’re just a girl.”
“Maybe,” Bastina said, tears spilling down her cheeks. “But I care about you. I know you’re going to die or be captured by slavers. And I know I’ll miss you. I…” Tears overwhelmed her and she had to stop. Murasa put an arm around the girl and hugged her, glaring at Jebel accusingly.
“It’s not my fault she feels that way,” Jebel muttered. But he felt bad, so he reached behind his tunic to where he’d strapped the bags of swagah and pressed three silver coins into Bastina’s hand.
“I don’t want your blood money,” she wept.
“It’s a gift, Bas,” Jebel said. “If I return, give them back to me. If I don’t, you can spend them on a memorial for me — though I think you’d be better off buying some new clothes.” He tugged at her dirty blouse. “You’d attract a husband a lot quicker if you had nice outfits.”
“What do you care… whether I… get married or not?” Bastina gulped. “You’re only worried… about Debbat and what… she thinks of you.”
“I worry about you too,” Jebel said, and it wasn’t a total lie. “I’d like to see you married. You’re not ugly, except when you cry. The trouble is, you cry most of the time — when people are beheaded, when slaves are whipped, when questers set off.” He wiped tears from her face and smiled. “Buy fancy clothes if I don’t return and try not to cry so much. Then you’ll find a husband in no time.”
Jebel stepped back from Bastina and smiled sheepishly at Tel Hesani. The slave looked at Jebel neutrally, awaiting his command. “Well,” Jebel said uncertainly, “I guess we’d better take your family to my father’s house and–”
“Bas said that she would take us,” Murasa interrupted. “I told her you would be in a hurry to leave. J’An Nasrim will have already told your father of your quest, so there is no need for you to accompany us, unless you wish to discuss it with him before you depart.”
Jebel would have liked to say goodbye to his father and brothers – he felt lonely now that he realised he would probably never see them again – but questers didn’t usually take a detour to bid their loved ones farewell. Besides, he didn’t think they would approve of his decision and he couldn’t stand the thought of them criticising him.
“Very well,” Jebel said hollowly. He glanced at Tel Hesani, then Murasa. “Is there anything you want to say to each other?”
“We said all that needed to be said before we left home,” Tel Hesani replied. He exchanged a look with Murasa, then with his children. They all gazed at him silently, fighting back tears. Tel Hesani gulped, then turned and pointed to a street. “I suggest we go this way, to the docks. From there we can follow the path north to where the early morning traders pitch their stalls.”
“Yes,” Jebel said. “That was my plan anyway.” He smiled at Bastina. Sniffling, she put her hands together and bowed. He nodded at her roughly, then hurried after Tel Hesani, who was already several strides ahead and moving swiftly.
SEVEN
It was a glorious summer’s morning, not a single cloud in the perfect blue sky. A breeze blew in off the as-Sudat, cooling those who laboured nearby.
Jebel and Tel Hesani had walked all night, arriving at the huge market on the northern outskirts of Wadi a few hours before daybreak. Jebel was fit to drop by the time they stopped, and he dozed until dawn, sitting on a stone bench, head bobbing, watched over by his slave.
As the sun rose and traders set up their wares, Tel Hesani tapped Jebel’s shoulder. Jebel awoke sluggishly, got up and stretched. His branded arm still felt as if it was on fire, but he clenched his teeth against the pain.
“What first?” he yawned, staring at the rows of stalls. Lots of traders were laying out their goods on tables, or hanging them from overhead hooks, but others simply placed them on a mat or on the ground.
“We need to buy a good map,” Tel Hesani said. “Then we can choose our route. It helps to know where you are going before you set out.”
Jebel was too tired to mark the slave’s sarcasm. “All right,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Do you know where the map-makers are?”
“I am confident that I can find them, master,” Tel Hesani said drily, then led the boy into the labyrinth of traders, moving quickly and surely. He had never been to this market, but he had visited many like it. A short while later, the pair were studying a map of the Great Kingdoms, seated around a table in an outdoor tavern.
Tel Hesani spent a while familiarising himself with the names. Um Kheshabah had different names for many of the rivers, mountains and towns of the Eastern Nations.
“This is the shortest route,” Tel Hesani said, tracing the path with his finger. “North by the banks of the as-Surout to the border between Abu Aineh, Abu Nekhele and Abu Safafaha. Then straight through Abu Safafaha to the eastern entrance of Abu Siq. But it would be madness to risk capture by the Um Safafaha.”
“I agree,” Jebel grunted. “I’m not going anywhere near those barbarians. They eat their own babies.”
“An exaggeration,” Tel Hesani said. “But they often sacrifice stray travellers to their gods. It might be wiser to enter Abu Nekhele after Shihat and head for Hassah, then make for the western entrance into the siq.”
Jebel frowned. “Isn’t it swampland between Shihat and Hassah? I’ve heard of whole camps being drowned in quicksand or eaten by alligators. Wouldn’t it be safer to follow the as-Sudat from here?” Jebel traced the route of the river with a finger. “That would take us through Abu Judayda, then back around east through the less treacherous parts of Abu Nekhele.”
“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?”
Jebel wasn’t comfortable with the idea of eating at the same table as a slave, but he didn’t want to be impolite to the strangers who had saved his life, so he said nothing as Tel Hesani sat down opposite him, for all the world a free and equal man.
“Well, young sir,” the man in the tunic said. “Introductions are in order. My grandfather, rest his spirit, told me to never break bread with someone unless you know their name. I am Master Bush and this is my good friend and business partner, Master Blair.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” Jebel replied. “I’m Jebel Rum and this is my slave, Tel Hesani.”
“I hope you don’t mind that we intervened,” Master Bush said, offering the basket to Jebel, then to Tel Hesani. “We’re well aware that questers are more than capable of solving their own problems, but we felt on this occasion that you might… not exactly need… but welcome our modest interjection.”
“The Um Safafaha are a beastly bunch,” Master Blair said, not lowering his voice, even though the savage sitting nearby might overhear. “We thought it would save time if we pointed out your brand to him and spared you the nuisance of having to prove your undoubted strength and courage in a needless, tiring fight.”
“Your help was appreciated,” Jebel said, biting into a delicious leg of chicken. “It’s been a long day and I’m not at my sharpest. I wasn’t sure how to handle him. If you hadn’t spoken up when you did…”
“Oh, I’m sure you would have taken care of matters on your own,” Master Bush laughed. “We just did you… not even a favour… shall we say a very minor service. This is a town of savages. We kinsfolk have to look out for one another.”
“You’re from Abu Aineh?” Jebel asked. “I thought you might be, by the way you spoke, but you don’t look like Um Aineh.”
Both men were small. Master Bush was light skinned, only slightly darker than Tel Hesani, with bright blue eyes. His long hair was tied back in a ponytail and he sported a fine goatee beard, so thin that Jebel missed it first time round. Master Blair was darker, but he wore trousers, rare for one of Jebel’s countrymen. His hair was cut to his shoulders and his moustache was carefully maintained. Neither man was tattooed. Jebel had never seen a pair like this, but if he’d had to guess, he would have said they were from the far west of Abu Nekhele.
“Oh, we’re Um Aineh sure enough,” Master Blair sighed. “But from the border with Abu Rashrasha. We were born on the banks of the as-Burdah. We both come from mixed backgrounds – our family trees are laden with all sorts of rascals – hence our appearance. Also, since we spend most of our time travelling abroad, we removed our tattoos with acid many years ago — it pays to be able to pretend you’re a native of other parts in lands where Um Aineh are less than welcome.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Jebel said quickly.
Master Bush waved his apology away. “Don’t worry about it. You’re not the first to mistake us for foreigners. Even some of our own family don’t recognise us on the rare occasions when we return home.”
Masters Bush and Blair spent the next couple of hours engaged in friendly chat with Jebel and Tel Hesani, although the slave didn’t say much. They told Jebel that they were traders. They had been given the title of Master many years ago by the high lord of Abu Judayda, after they had delivered a shipment of medicine to the city state during a time of plague.
“We do not mean to give the impression that we are humanitarians,” Master Bush purred. “We love the roll of a gold coin between our fingers as much as the next man. But when the need is great, how could anyone of good conscience not do all in his power to help?”
The traders spent a lot of their time outside the Great Kingdoms, south and west of Abu Kheshabah, and north of the al-Meata mountains, from where they had only recently returned.
“There’s a fortune to be made up north,” Master Bush said.
“We just haven’t figured out how,” Master Blair laughed. “Everyone knows the mountains are laden with ore, waiting to be tapped. The trouble is, nobody’s been able to locate it, and even if we knew where it was, it snows so much that you could only mine there maybe two months out of any given year.”
“But that’s using traditional mining techniques,” Master Bush added. “We’re on our way to Abu Saga to investigate the matter more thoroughly. We’re convinced that there are other ways of burrowing, making it possible to work all year round.”
The pair of traders went wherever the lure of swagah led them. They bought and traded anything they could lay their hands on. Jewels, weapons, clothes, fruit, wine… they had dabbled in it all.
“We’ve made and lost a couple of fortunes already,” Master Bush shrugged.
“It’s the game we’re interested in, not the profit,” said Master Blair. “We could have retired years ago if we’d wished.”
“But then what would we do for fun?” Master Bush asked.
They were interested in Jebel’s quest and asked many questions about what had prompted him to undertake it and the route he intended to follow. They couldn’t offer any advice about how to navigate the Abu Nekhele swamplands.
“We’ve always steered clear of swamps,” Master Bush said. “Mosquitoes don’t agree with us.”
Master Bush told Jebel not to buy their winter clothes in Hassah. “You can get everything you need in Jedir. Few travellers go that way, so the prices are lower.”
“And I’m certain swagah is a serious consideration on so long a quest,” Master Blair said. “You need to save wherever you can, yes?”
“That’s all right,” Jebel smiled. “We’ve got plenty of–”
“Thank you,” Tel Hesani interrupted. “We were worried about how to finance the rest of our trip, as we brought very little swagah with us. We will heed your advice and save our small supply of coins for further along the road.”
“Most questers struggle with funding,” Master Bush sighed. “In our experience the wealthy are the least likely to take to the wilds on a near-fatal quest.”
Later that night, Masters Bush and Blair joined in the game of cards which was still going strong. The players greeted them suspiciously, but when Master Blair lost nineteen silver swagah on his third hand, expressions changed, more wine and ale was poured and everyone settled down for a good night’s gambling.
“Here, my friends,” Master Blair said dolefully, handing a couple of swagah to Jebel. “Find decent mats for yourselves and a couple for us by one of the walls.”
“I can’t–” Jebel began.
“Take it,” Master Blair insisted. “I’d only lose it to these cunning card sharks if I held on to it.”
The other players laughed at the barbed compliment. Jebel bowed gratefully, then pushed to the bar with Tel Hesani to order four of the inn’s best mats.
“Why did you lie earlier?” Jebel asked Tel Hesani as they lay down, picking dead insects out of the folds of their thin covers.
“Our finances should be our own affair,” Tel Hesani replied. “It is always better to proclaim less than you possess.”
“But they’re our friends,” Jebel said. “We don’t have to lie to them.”
Tel Hesani smiled tightly. “I have spent time with many travellers and found that those who travel widest generally boast the least.”
Jebel’s eyes narrowed. “Are you calling Masters Bush and Blair liars?”
“I would not dare make such a baseless accusation,” Tel Hesani said. “But I have been to a couple of the nations south of Abu Kheshabah of which they spoke. I do not remember them in quite the same way that the good Masters do. And I have no memory of there being a plague in Abu Judayda any time recently.”
“I’d be careful what I said in your place,” Jebel growled. “Your head will end up on an executioner’s block if you go around questioning honest Um Aineh.”
“I will hold my tongue in future, my lord,” Tel Hesani said stiffly, and left his next comment — that he didn’t believe the pair were Um Aineh — go unsaid.
Making himself as comfortable as he could, Jebel lay down, closed his eyes and tried to drown out the noise and stench of the inn, so that he could hopefully grab some sleep and escape the rotten squalor of Shihat in his dreams.
TEN
Aroar jolted Jebel out of his fitful sleep. “Cheats!” someone bellowed, and it was followed by the sound of a smashing plate or mug.
Jebel’s head snapped up. He saw the Um Safafaha who’d confronted him earlier, on his feet now, face flushed, pointing a trembling finger at Masters Bush and Blair. It was late and the inn was quieter than it had been, most of its patrons asleep on the floor. But there were still several people drinking at the bar, and three other gamblers at the table with the Um Safafaha and Jebel’s new friends. All eyes were now on the towering savage, eager to see what would happen next.
“Cheats!” the Um Safafaha roared again.
Master Bush shook his head and sighed. “Some men just cannot accept the cruel misfortune of their cards,” he said.
“A tragedy,” Master Blair murmured. “To play in the expectation of winning every hand…”
“Not every hand,” the Um Safafaha snarled. “But I ain’t won a decent hand since you sat down. Nobody has.”
“I don’t believe that’s true,” said Master Bush. “If I recall correctly, you’ve won four or five times in just the last couple of hours.”
“Nothing pots,” came the growled response. “We’ve all had little wins, but you two have won every major hand.”
“He has a point,” one of the other gamblers said, and Jebel felt the mood shift. Sleepers were nudged awake. One man calling foul was the start of a fight, but if others agreed with him, it could turn into a lynching.
“Pick up your belongings,” Tel Hesani whispered. Jebel looked around and saw that the slave had already put his own pack together. “Do it without a fuss. Then walk to the door, but stay close to the wall and keep your eyes on the gamblers — act like you’re moving forward for a better view.”
“We can’t leave now,” Jebel objected. “They might need our help.”
“They’re more than capable of helping themselves,” hissed Tel Hesani.
“But–” Jebel began.
“The people here think we’re their associates,” Tel Hesani said. “If Bush and Blair are hanged, we’ll hang too.”
Jebel didn’t want to abandon the traders, but he didn’t want to end up with his neck in a noose either. So he picked up his bags as Tel Hesani commanded and they slid from their benches and began to steal their way to the door.
At the table, Masters Bush and Blair weren’t panicking. In fact they acted like this was no more than a minor inconvenience.
“I think we are no longer welcome,” Master Bush said.
“Should we retire to our mats?” Master Blair asked.
“Don’t bother,” the Um Safafaha laughed. “You won’t be needing them.”
“But we paid for them,” said Master Bush. “If we’re not to use them, we should be entitled to a refund.”
“We’ll put it towards the cost of burying you,” the Um Safafaha said.
The other three gamblers stood and backed away from the table. People rose from their mats and joined them, forming a purposeful half-circle. Masters Bush and Blair didn’t react, except to casually gather their winnings.
“I’m sure you good gentlemen won’t object if we bag the swagah,” Master Blair said.
“It will save you a job once you’ve hung us up to dry,” Master Bush added.
“Go ahead,” one of the gamblers grinned. “We like men who can see the light side of their own execution.”
“Oh, we believe you have to be able to laugh at everything in this world, don’t we, Master Blair?” Master Bush said.
“Indeed,” Master Blair agreed. He finished bagging his share of the coins. “Laughter keeps the world turning. That’s why my partner and I spend much of our time… I wouldn’t say mastering… but learning new tricks. We like to amuse those we meet. Perhaps you’d like to see a trick before you take us outside — assuming you’re not planning to hang us from the rafters in here.”
“Go ahead,” the Um Safafaha cackled. “Perform all the tricks you like, long as they ain’t vanishing tricks.”
The crowd laughed. Jebel, who was almost at the door, wondered if the Masters meant to joke their way out of their predicament. He didn’t think that they could, but he silently wished them the best of luck as he reached for the handle.
A man stepped in his way. Jebel looked up and saw that it was the innkeeper. “Don’t leave now,” he growled. “You’ll miss all the fun.”
Jebel looked back at Tel Hesani. The slave glanced around. Nobody else had spotted them. The innkeeper was the only one aware that they existed. But if they tried to knock him aside, they’d draw the attention of the mob. Tel Hesani gave Jebel a signal and they took a couple of steps away from the door.
Master Blair had fished a small ball out of a pocket. It was a peculiar mesh ball, made of interlacing strands of a fine material. There was a metal triangle in the middle. “Observe,” Master Blair said, tilting the ball and squeezing it. The triangle slipped through a gap between strands. He caught it, then poked it back into the ball, shook it and teased the triangle through another gap.
“I don’t think much of that,” the Um Safafaha grunted.
“You haven’t seen the best part yet,” Master Blair said. And with a fast flick of his wrist he sent the ball flying at the larger man’s throat. It struck him just below his Adam’s apple and bounced off. The Um Safafaha started to bring his hands up to protect himself, then realised he had nothing to fear. He looked down at the ball which had landed on the table and was rolling back to Master Blair, and sneered.
“Is that it?” one of the gamblers asked, disappointed.
“Almost,” Master Blair said. “But if you look closely, you’ll see that the triangle has disappeared.”
“That’s supposed to make us laugh?” the gambler snorted.
“No,” Master Blair said, then pointed at the Um Safafaha. “That is.”
The Um Safafaha began to choke. Eyes bulging, he staggered backwards and fell over a table, scratching at his throat, gasping for breath, blood bubbling from his mouth. He tried to rise again, but didn’t make it. As a huge gout of blood burst from his lips, he collapsed, shook, then went still.
“And so the giant was brought low,” Master Bush muttered and stood. He was holding two mesh balls similar to Master Blair’s, one in each hand. “Does anybody else want to argue the finer points of the game with us?”
Nobody answered. The eyes of those around the traders were full of hate — not because they’d killed the Um Safafaha, but because they had cheated the mob of a hanging.
Master Blair took his time picking up the bags of swagah and putting them in his pockets. When he was finished, he yawned and stretched. “I could do with a good night’s sleep, Master Bush. Shall we take to our mats now?”
“I would advise against it,” Master Bush said. “The air is rife with treachery. I believe our sleep would be disturbed by agents of vengeful wrath.”
“A pity,” Master Blair sighed, then started towards the door. Two more of the mesh balls appeared in his hands as if by magic. People quickly stepped out of his way, then took another step back when Master Bush followed him.
The traders were almost at the door when Master Blair spotted Jebel and Tel Hesani. “There you are!” he boomed. “I thought you had departed already.”
“We couldn’t get out,” Jebel said, nodding at the innkeeper.
Master Blair raised an eyebrow at the um Shihat. “Would you please step aside, kind sir? We wish to leave.”
“I want a death tithe,” the innkeeper snarled. “That savage was part of a group. They’ll come here looking to cause trouble when they find out he’s dead. The only hope I have of keeping them quiet is to fix them up with ale and women.”
“A troublesome task,” Master Blair said. “You have my condolences.”
“I don’t want your condolences,” the innkeeper growled. “I want a death tithe. A tenth of your winnings — that’s fair. Then you can leave without any trouble.”
“That would be fair,” Master Blair agreed. “Except I think he was travelling by himself and you are trying to con us.”
“A tenth is not so much,” Master Bush said. “Perhaps we should take this good man at his word and pay the tithe.”
“I have looked deep into his eyes, Master Bush. He is a liar. I am certain.”
“I ain’t no liar!” the innkeeper barked. “And I ain’t letting you out unless you pay that stinking tithe.”
Master Blair’s smile tightened. “And if we choose to kill you, sir?”
“You won’t,” the innkeeper snorted. “Killing a savage is one thing, but if you kill me, you’ll have half the soldiers in Shihat on your backs before you’re ten paces out the door.”
Master Blair nodded. “You make a valid point. But I believe we could get more than ten paces from here… twelve at the least. Master Bush?”
“Most definitely twelve,” Master Bush murmured.
Master Blair tutted. “You have placed us in a dilemma. If we pay, we’ll never know who was wrong and who was right. And we are men who hate to live in doubt. So, as hazardous as it may prove to be…”
With a lazy smile, Master Blair’s left hand jerked and the mesh ball struck the innkeeper in the middle of his throat. As he fell aside, choking, Master Blair yanked the door open, grabbed Jebel and thrust him through. He made to grab Tel Hesani, but the slave was already following the boy. Master Blair spun, launched his final ball at the crowd — Master Bush had thrown both of his too — then the pair of traders darted after the um Wadi and his slave, slamming the door shut on the screams of the outraged mob.
“This way, gentlemen,” Master Bush said, heading for an alley.
Jebel started to follow the traders, but Tel Hesani caught him. “We shouldn’t go with them,” he said.
Jebel paused. Events had unfolded so quickly, his head was in a whirl.
Master Blair winked. “You’re free to make your own way if you wish, young Rum, but we know this town better than you or your slave. My advice is to throw your lot in with us.”
The pair fled down the alley. Jebel stared at Tel Hesani, wanting him to make the call. The slave hesitated, then heard the door of the inn opening. Slapping Jebel’s back, he pointed after the traders. They ducked down the alley just before the first members of the mob appeared, screeching bloody murder.
Jebel and Tel Hesani soon caught up with Masters Bush and Blair. The traders were making good time, but they weren’t racing. Master Blair even took the time to stop in front of a window to check his appearance and smooth his moustache.
“You didn’t have to kill him,” Jebel gasped.
“The Um Safafaha?” Master Blair said, surprised.
“No — the innkeeper. Why didn’t you pay him?”
“He would have raised the alarm regardless,” Master Blair said. “I know his sort. He would have set the soldiers on us even if we’d given him all our swagah.”
They turned down another dark alley. Jebel had no idea where they were. He could hear the mob somewhere behind, yelling and cursing. He was terrified, but Master Blair seemed unaffected by the uproar.
“Was it true?” Jebel asked Master Bush as they jogged. “Did you cheat?”
“Please!” Master Bush said with a pained expression. “One never asks a valued friend such an insensitive question.”
“Where are we going?” growled Tel Hesani. He would have gladly broken free of the traders, except he didn’t know the town.
“The docks,” Master Bush said. “We have a small skiff moored and ready to sail. There isn’t much room, but you’re more than welcome to share it with us.”
“We can’t,” Jebel said. “I’m a quester. I have to travel on foot.”
“I understand,” said Master Bush. “But in an emergency such as this…”
“No,” Jebel said stubbornly. “Sabbah Eid would curse me if I did.”
“As you wish,” Master Bush sighed. “I admire your dedication, even though I fear it may prove your undoing.”
They jogged in silence, winding their way through the dark, twisting streets. The sounds of the mob faded, but didn’t go away. Jebel’s heart pumped furiously. He had never had to flee for his life before. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation.
Ten minutes later they reached a quiet section of the docks. There were few boats moored here and Jebel soon smelt why — they were by the rim of a sewer, where waste overflowed into the as-Surout. The stench was overwhelming. Jebel reeled aside and was sick. Tel Hesani was almost sick too, but he managed to keep his food down. Masters Bush and Blair seemed oblivious to the smell. They made for a skiff tied close to where the waste opened into the river. A wretched boy was standing guard. He was naked except for a short sword strapped to his side. He drew it now and snarled at the traders. Master Bush tossed him a silver swagah and pushed on to the boat.
Master Blair tossed another piece of swagah to the boy, then shooed him away. He turned to smile at Jebel and Tel Hesani. “Last chance, good sirs. We’re sailing north, following much the same route as you. But we’ll cover it faster and we won’t have to worry about cannibals, alligators, mosquitoes or the other nuisances of the swamp. We’ll gladly take you with us.”
“We can’t,” Jebel said miserably. “It’s a condition of the quest.”
“Very well. On your own heads be it.” Master Blair jumped down into the boat and untied the last of the knots.
“There’s a bordello two streets over,” Master Bush said as they pushed out into the current. “It has a cellar bar, one of the worst holes in Shihat — and that’s saying something! But it’s dark and quiet there. My advice is to pick your way to it and keep your heads down until morning.”
“Thank you,” Jebel said, sorry to see the pair leave, despite the trouble they’d brought upon him. “I wish you luck with your mining venture.”
“And we wish you all the luck of the gods with your quest,” Master Bush said. As the current caught the skiff, the trader sat alongside Master Blair and each man took up an oar and began rowing.
“We’ll look for you further up the trail,” Master Blair called, waving with one hand. “Perhaps our paths will cross again.”
“I hope so,” Jebel replied, waving in return. He would have liked to watch the strange Masters sail out of sight, but Tel Hesani nudged him roughly. “All right,” Jebel snapped. Turning his back on the river, he hurried after Tel Hesani as the slave led him in search of sordid sanctuary.
ELEVEN
The cellar bar was dark and mouldy, filled with shifty, foul-smelling clients of the bordello. A few candles burnt in a corner, the only light except for occasional flares as somebody lit up a length of smoking tobacco.
The pair of refugees bought drinks and stood — there were no chairs or benches — in the darkest crevice, trying to avoid contact with those around them, shivering with cold and fear.
The night passed slowly and uncomfortably. At one point Jebel leant against the wall and tried to doze standing up. Something long and slimy slithered down the neck of his tunic. Yelping, he tore off the tunic, slapped away a leech-like creature and kept clear of the wall after that.
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