Darren Shan - The Thin Executioner

“Perhaps we should find medicine for him,” Bush said one evening as the wind howled around them and snow threatened to quench their fire. “We’re not far from a town. We could…”

Blair shook his head. “If we start pampering him, it will never end. If he survives this, he’ll be all the tougher. If he doesn’t… well, I won’t cry. Will you?”

Bush glanced at Jebel. The boy didn’t seem to be paying attention. He was staring into the flames, shivering wildly. “No,” Bush admitted.

But Jebel did hear. And although it didn’t come as a shock, it helped steel his resolve. I won’t die , he thought angrily. I won’t give those ghouls the pleasure. I’ll live and grow strong. I’ll escape, then hunt them down and make them suffer .

His teachers had always said that hatred was a distraction. You couldn’t think clearly if your thoughts were clouded by rage. But this wasn’t a classroom in Wadi, and Jebel had learned that his teachers didn’t know all the answers. Hate was essential if he was to survive. Hate kept him going. In a land without gods, separated from his family, friends, and Tel Hesani, hate was all he had left.

Fueled by this burning hatred, Jebel fought off his chill and forced himself to eat healthily again. The dark circles under his eyes remained, and there was a tremble in his hands that he couldn’t stop, but he kept going. If he was to die at the hands of Bush and Blair, he’d die on his feet like a man, not quivering like a dog.

But Jebel was careful not to show his fierce determination to live. He maintained a defeated expression and made the tremor in his hands look worse than it was. He started thanking Bush and Blair for every scrap of food and word of fake kindness. He acted like a faithful hound in their presence. He didn’t overplay it — just enough groveling to let them think he was completely broken, entirely theirs.

A couple of weeks later, having robbed another graveyard, they reached the as-Disi, close to where it roared down out of the al-Attieg. In the distance they saw clouds of spray from the famed as-Disi waterfalls. Travelers sometimes sailed the entire length of the river just to marvel at the falls. Jebel would have liked to go and take a look, even though you couldn’t see them clearly in this weather. But Bush and Blair weren’t interested in natural wonders.

“What say you, Master Bush?” Blair asked as they stood by the banks of the roaring river. “Northwest to raid more tombs or straight north to Disi for a rest?”

Bush scratched his beard — he had let his goatee grow long — and grunted. “Disi beckons promisingly. But it will be hard to turn our back on the comforts of real lodgings once we get used to them, especially in this weather.”

“Conditions might improve,” Blair noted. “A week or so of civilization will lift our spirits and embolden us for the rest of the season. And if the worst comes to the worst and we’re snowed in, we have enough swagah to tide us over. We could pass a pleasant few months there if we had to.”

“That would mean starting from scratch in the spring,” Bush muttered, then snorted. “But why look that far ahead? You’re right, old friend, as usual. We are due a break. How about it, young Rum? Are you excited by the thought of a stop in Disi?”

Jebel shrugged. “I go where you go, my lords.”

“Then it’s decided,” Bush grinned. “Look out, Disi — here we come!”

Disi was a huge, sprawling city of contrasts, home to some of the finest inns in Makhras, but also some of the foulest. Miners of every class came here when they needed time away from their holes in the ground, and the city served the needs of all.

It was snowing when the graverobbers arrived, having spent almost a week trekking north, hampered by storms. They were cold and ill-tempered and gladly fell into the first inn they came to. It was one of Disi’s lesser establishments, but they were delighted to be out of the snow and collapsed into bed without a word of complaint, pausing only so that Bush could tie up Jebel.

When they woke late, they shuffled downstairs and picked at a disgusting breakfast — even Jebel couldn’t eat all of his food — then went in search of finer accommodations. After examining a handful of prestigious inns, they settled for one overlooking the as-Disi.

Jebel couldn’t believe it when he saw their room. It was as large as the ground floor of his home in Wadi, with a balcony, four beds, a toilet and bath behind a silk screen, an open fire, a fan for use in summer, and a chandelier.

“It’s the small comforts I miss most when we’re on the road,” Bush said, gazing around the room with a lovestruck air.

“Some people need a ship and a star to sail her by,” said Blair. He leapt onto one of the beds and buried his face in the feather pillows. “But this does for me!”

Even Jebel felt his spirits lighten. After the hardships of the last few months, this seemed to be a dreamworld. He strolled around in a daze, touching the beds, candlesticks, a dressing table. Was this real, or was he lying in a snow-covered field somewhere, imagining it as he froze to death?

Dinner was just as lavish. They were waited on by pale, half-naked Um Saga women, who cut up their food and poured wine into their mouths from large silver goblets, then danced while the traders cheered encouragement.

Bush and Blair went in search of company after the meal. They tied Jebel up in the room. He didn’t mind — it was peaceful there. He thought he might have sweet dreams of Debbat Alg, sleeping on such a comfortable bed, but only the dead came to haunt and torment him that night, as they so often did.

The snowstorm died out overnight, and a weak sun was shining the next day. Crews of slaves were set to work early in the morning to clear the busier streets of snow and slush. After a filling breakfast, Bush and Blair took Jebel out to explore the city. They kept him on a gold collar and chain, which they’d purchased the night before. It was common for favored slaves to be paraded in this fashion, though most were led around by a simple length of rope.

Jebel’s shame was absolute. He withered away inside under the casual stares of the Um Saga. He knew he was helpless, that he had to play out this hand and wait for an opportunity to break free, but that didn’t make his humiliation any easier to bear.

You could buy just about anything at the Disi markets and stores. As well as the places selling food and clothes, there were traders hawking mining equipment, rare spices, gems of all sorts, even paintings and statues.

Bush and Blair made the rounds of reputable jewelers. They had a bag full of a portion of their takings from the graveyards (they’d hidden most of the stash in their room at the inn) and went around converting the rings, necklaces, and gems into swagah. They only traded a few pieces at any one store, careful not to reveal the extent of their wealth. This was a dangerous city — gangs of thieves were always on the prowl — and they didn’t want to end up like the corpses they had stolen from.

Jebel considered betraying the traders, telling one of the many cutthroats they passed of the jewels they were carrying, bartering his freedom for the information. But the pair kept him close at all times. Even if they hadn’t and he’d managed to speak with someone, why should they spare him if they killed the fake Masters? It would be easier to murder him too, to ensure he didn’t tell any tales later.

Nevertheless, Jebel felt that Disi would provide him with his best chance to escape. Bush and Blair were focused on the Um Saga, not paying much attention to their slave. And the city was full of places where a runaway could hide. If he broke free, he fancied his chances of evading capture. He’d worry about what came next when he faced that hurdle. Getting away from Bush and Blair was his first priority. It was just a question of when to make his move. Night would be better, but he was sure they’d keep him tied up. So it had to be during the day, when his hands and feet were unbound. But would Bush and Blair bring him out again? He couldn’t depend on that.