Darren Shan - The Thin Executioner

“Not with this,” Blair said, throwing something up onto the roof. It was a rope ladder attached to a steel bar with flat ends. “Feed that through the window. The bar remains on top. If by some chance you pull it down after yourself, don’t worry. Master Bush or I will climb up and help you out.”

Jebel could see that the pair were not to be swayed. Moaning softly, he crawled to the window, gazed into the gloom of the mausoleum, then started smashing the glass.

“Stop that!” Bush cried. “You might attract the townsfolk!”

Jebel paused and thought it over. This could be his chance to escape….

Blair seemed to read the boy’s mind, because even as Jebel was preparing to hammer at the window and scream, he said, “You’d be tied to a tree and left to die if the Um Saga caught you raiding one of their tombs.”

“They wouldn’t listen to your pleas of innocence,” Bush warned.

“And it wouldn’t be a quick, easy death by freezing,” added Blair. “They’d light a fire beside you and leave you for the insects that infest many of the trees in this region.”

“They chew through wood easily enough,” Bush said. “So as you can imagine, flesh doesn’t present much of a barrier to them.”

Jebel took a deep breath, settled his nerves, then said, “How am I supposed to break through the glass if I don’t smash it?”

“One end of the bar has been sharpened,” Blair said. “Slice through the glass around the rim and make a small hole, then start cutting around the edges. When you’re nearly through, grip the glass through the hole, so it doesn’t fall.”

“I don’t have any gloves,” said Jebel. “The glass will cut me.”

“You’re a big boy,” Bush laughed. “You’ll heal.”

“But blood will make the glass slippery. I might drop it.”

There was silence, then a single leather glove came flying up. Jebel pulled it on quickly. The tiny measure of relief that it brought from the cold was delicious. He clutched the hand to his chest, eyes closed, relishing this smallest of comforts. Then, exhaling shakily, he chipped away at a section of the glass and scraped the end of the bar along the rim, inserting his gloved hand in plenty of time to make sure the glass didn’t fall.

Once he’d removed the glass, Jebel lowered himself through the open window. When he was at chest level, he brought the bar in close, making sure both ends were planted firmly, then dropped, holding on to the bar. He came to his full reach, hung there a moment, then let go. He fell a few feet and landed neatly.

Jebel stood and let his eyes adjust. When he was able to see, he stared at the five coffins, waiting for the lids to lift and the dead to attack him, as they did in stories he had heard about graverobbers. When that didn’t happen, he crept to the nearest coffin and examined it. The lid wasn’t bolted down, and although it looked heavy, there was a layer of smooth metal between case and lid which made it easy to slide it forward and back.

Jebel took several deep breaths before he worked up the courage to touch the coffin. It was as cold as he’d expected. There were engravings on the lid, as well as an etching of the dead man’s face. Jebel ignored these and pushed the lid. It slid sideways smoothly. He let it get halfway across, then stopped and forced himself to look down at the face of the corpse.

“Gods protect me!” he shouted, falling away with shock. The man’s face was as freshly preserved as Jebel’s, and his eyes were open. He looked like he’d just awakened and was planning to eat Jebel alive for disturbing him.

Jebel ran for the ladder, missed it, crashed into another coffin, and rebounded. He lay on the floor, panting, heart beating faster than a bird’s. His eyes shot to the open coffin, and he thought he saw a hand reaching up out of the darkness. He began to scream… then stopped when he realized that he was imagining the hand.

Jebel lay on the floor, gasping. Eventually he got to his feet and stumbled back to the open coffin. The corpse was still there, its face as fresh as before, its eyes open. But this time Jebel saw that there was no life in its eyes nor breath on its lips. The cold of the mausoleum must have kept the body fresh, or else the Um Saga used embalming fluid. Either way, this person could do him no harm, and although Jebel still felt queasy, he was no longer terrified.

Jebel ran his gaze over the corpse’s face, neck, and left arm. The man had been buried with a diamond-studded earring and two gold rings, one on his index finger, one on the middle finger. Jebel reached for the earring. Paused. Raised a hand and laid the back of his palm on the dead man’s cold forehead.

“I beg your forgiveness,” Jebel whispered. “I’m a slave to evil men and must do as they command or else join you in the land of the dead.”

Then he took off the earring and pried the rings from the corpse’s hand. That wasn’t so easy — they were jammed on tight and had half-fused with the flesh. Jebel had to use a piece of glass to cut the rings free, and when he slid them off, they had bits of the corpse’s flesh attached. Jebel didn’t clean off the flesh. He would leave that messy task to Bush and Blair.

Jebel went to the other side of the coffin and slid the lid back in the opposite direction so he could get to the dead man’s right side. There was one ring on this hand, and again Jebel had to cut it free. He put it with the others on a piece of cloth, then shut the lid and rested a moment.

Laying his head on the coffin, Jebel breathed raggedly in and out, eyes shut, trembling uncontrollably as he thought about what he’d done. How could he ever eat again, knowing his fingers had touched the cold, grey flesh of the dead? Tears dripped down his cheeks for the first time since his father had threatened to disown him all those years ago if he ever wept again, but Jebel didn’t care. This was a place and a time for tears.

Although Jebel didn’t want to continue, he knew he couldn’t pause here forever, mourning the loss of his humanity. He had a job to do, and grisly as it was, the sooner he completed it, the sooner he could get out. So, pushing himself away, he wiped tears from his cheeks and, with all the sluggishness of a bewitched corpse, moved on to the second coffin.

There was a moment, somewhere in the middle of that dead and chilling night, when Jebel thought of using a shard of glass to slice his throat open. But suicide was not the way of the Um Aineh. It was only acceptable as a last resort, to avoid great disgrace. But Jebel didn’t think the gods would look kindly on him if he took his own life. He wasn’t beyond hope. There would be chances in the future to fight for his freedom. Killing himself now would be an act of cowardice.

So he worked on, from one coffin to the next, until all five had been plundered. Replacing the last lid, he staggered to the rope ladder, hauled himself up, pulled the ladder after him, then rolled to the edge of the roof and dropped off. He thrust the bulging cloth at Bush and Blair, then strode away to draw clean breaths of fresh air.

Bush and Blair were impressed by Jebel’s haul. “You did a fine job,” Bush said.

“Most commendable,” cooed Blair. “Except next time work a little faster — you were in there much longer than necessary.”

Jebel almost retorted, but the traders were in a good mood and there was no sense angering them. Instead he sighed and said, “Do you want me to do another mausoleum?”

Bush looked at the moon, then shook his head. “It pays not to be greedy. Let’s settle for what we have and slip away safely.”

“I agree,” said Blair, pocketing the rings and jewels. “The secret to success is to stop when you’re ahead.” He clapped Jebel on the back. “You did well tonight, young Rum. We’ll reward you with a hot meal when we stop for dinner tomorrow.”