Darren Shan - The Thin Executioner

“She died before my mother,” Jebel said. “He wasn’t lucky with the women he chose. The gods wanted him to focus on his work without distractions.”

“Some distractions are more welcome than others,” Tel Hesani chuckled. “Did you have a nurse?”

“Of course,” Jebel snorted. “You don’t think my father fed and cleaned up after me, do you?” His features softened as he thought back. “I was raised by Bas’s mother — Bas was the girl who was waiting outside the high lord’s palace for us.”

“I remember. Were you fond of her?”

“Of Bas ?” Jebel cried.

“Her mother.”

“Oh.” He chuckled. “Yes. I don’t see her much now, but I loved her when I was a child. I liked Bas too,” he admitted grudgingly. “When she wasn’t crying.”

“Do you miss them?” Tel Hesani asked.

Jebel nodded slowly.

“And your father and brothers?”

“Yes,” Jebel croaked. “I sometimes wish that I hadn’t come on this quest, that I’d accepted my shame and…” He coughed, then stamped out the fire and glared at the slave, angry at having his feelings stirred up in this manner. “Let’s have no more talk of what we left behind. Those people don’t matter to us anymore.”

Tel Hesani bowed obediently and doused the last few embers of the fire, then set off after his scowling young master, who was striding swiftly ahead of him, not checking for quicksand or hidden pools.

Finally they cleared the swamp. After a long bath in a hot-spring pool, they marched steadily west, following the base of the hills that became part of the Great Wall of the al-Attieg farther north. It was cold here, and not just because autumn had come to Abu Nekhele. Winds from the al-Attieg peaks meant it was always colder here than farther south. Jebel had meant to discard his trousers and put his tunic back on once they were clear of the swamp, but he was glad now of the warmth the trousers afforded.

There were lots of villages, home to goatherders and mountain farmers. Jebel and Tel Hesani avoided them. Although the powerful nations of Abu Nekhele and Abu Aineh were currently at peace, old resentments were as strong as ever. While an Um Aineh could in theory pass freely through here, many of the villagers would be only too happy to string up a stray um Wadi pup.

Also they were antislavery. Abu Nekhele had only recently banned slavery outright, but the people in the east had never kept slaves. Tel Hesani covered the dog’s skull tattoo on his left cheek with paste he’d bought in Wadi, but it wouldn’t mask the brand at close quarters.

Jebel’s fears about the slave resurfaced. If J’An Nasrim had miscalculated and Tel Hesani thought more of his freedom than his family, this was where he’d turn. It would be a simple matter for him to betray Jebel here and be declared a free man by the liberal Um Nekhele.

Jebel’s insides tensed every time they were studied from a distance by curious locals. He expected Tel Hesani to cry foul. But the slave kept his head up, walked by Jebel’s side as if the two were equals, and waved politely at the villagers.

A few days later they arrived at Hassah, on the eastern side of the as-Sudat. Hassah was an ancient settlement, but it had been rebuilt thirty years ago. The old buildings were torn down, and a new town sprouted out of their ashes. The wide streets now ran straight, either parallel to the river or at ninety-degree angles to it, and were cleaned every day. Scores of jetties had been constructed along the riverbanks. Taverns, inns, and bordellos existed in the usual high numbers, but the town didn’t have a seedy feel to it.

Jebel and Tel Hesani arrived in the afternoon. Finding a respectable inn, they ate and retired to bed. The next morning they explored. They strolled to the docks and watched cargo being loaded and offloaded from the steady flow of boats coming down the river from Abu Saga or preparing to head north. Soldiers kept a close watch on the goods. There was none of the thievery found in most ports.

The pair walked through the customs depot, where ranks of officials sat making entries in ledgers, collecting tariffs, issuing passes. Jebel shivered when he saw them at work — this was the sort of life he’d seemed destined for — and hurried on.

They browsed around one of Hassah’s many markets, to purchase warm clothes for the winter. As they wove through the neatly laid-out stalls, Jebel remembered the advice of Masters Bush and Blair — to wait until they reached Jedir to buy goods — and mentioned it to Tel Hesani.

“I see no need to postpone our purchase,” Tel Hesani replied. “We have more than enough swagah. We face a long march to Jedir, and I have heard that the nights are cold in the siq. It would be foolish not to stock up now.”

“But what if the Um Siq kill us for our new clothes?” Jebel asked.

Tel Hesani smiled. “The Um Siq are the wealthiest people in Makhras. They control all passage through the al-Attieg gorge, collecting taxes from boats sailing in both directions. They can easily afford to buy their own clothes.”

Jebel meant to ask more about the Um Siq, and also about the siq itself — he knew little about it, except that it was the only crack in the mountains of the al-Attieg through which a man could easily pass on foot. But at that moment he spotted a familiar sight in an adjoining square — an executioner’s platform. It was smaller than the one in Wadi, but somebody was on it, polishing the head of an axe.

“Come on!” Jebel barked at Tel Hesani, forgetting that he was supposed to behave as if the slave was free. “I want to see how they chop off heads here. I bet their executioner isn’t a patch on my father.”

A small crowd had gathered around the platform, but Jebel was able to push to the front. He’d assumed the man polishing the axe was an assistant, but up close he saw that it was the executioner himself. He was unlike any Jebel had heard of, a burly, unkempt man with lewd tattoos, dirty hair, and filthy hands. There was dried blood under his fingernails, and he didn’t wear any mask or cap.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Tel Hesani whispered, glancing uneasily at the other people in the crowd.

“Quiet,” Jebel hushed him, frowning at the executioner. The man looked like a sailor or farmer. An executioner should be sober and mannerly, but the brute on the platform was drinking from a mug of ale and exchanging jokes with some women.

A man in chains was led to the platform by two soldiers. The crowd muttered when they saw the prisoner, but nobody mocked or jeered him.

When the prisoner was standing on the platform, one of the soldiers addressed the crowd. “The accused, Moghar Nassara, has been found guilty of murder and sentenced to death. Does anyone want to make a final plea on his behalf?” When nobody answered, the soldier nodded. “Sentence to be carried out.”

The prisoner was bent over the block, and his head was locked in place with a wooden bar. The soldiers retreated but didn’t step down off the platform. The executioner spat into his hands, grabbed his axe, and hacked at the prisoner’s neck. It was an unclean cut — he hit the man’s head, not his neck, resulting in a scream of pain. The executioner swung again, hastily, and although he hit the neck this time, there wasn’t enough power in the blow to sever it.

The prisoner shrieked and cursed the executioner, along with those in the crowd. Blood seeped from the cuts to his head and neck. The executioner paused to wipe it away so he could mark his spot, then swung for a third time. He again failed to cut through the neck and had to hack at it a fourth time, then a fifth, until it was hanging by a thin strip of flesh. At that point he put his axe aside, grabbed the head, and pulled it off. When the head came free, he dumped it in a basket, then turned and wiped his hands on a towel stained with crusted blood.