Darren Shan - The Thin Executioner

Jebel was roughly kicked awake. A foot connected with his jaw and sent his head snapping back. As he jolted out of sleep, somebody pinned him to the floor. He cried for help, but then he saw the Um Kheshabah, arms bound, surrounded by three men. His heart sank, and he looked for Khubtha, wondering why he hadn’t warned them. That question was soon answered when he spotted Khubtha standing nearby, wrapped in a rug, smiling.

“Traitor!” Jebel screamed.

Tel Hesani stopped struggling and stared at Khubtha. “You betrayed us?”

“I had to,” said Khubtha. He didn’t sound ashamed.

“Why?” Tel Hesani asked as soldiers jerked him to his feet. “They won’t free you. Um Saga never free slaves. And they execute all who try to escape.”

“No,” Khubtha said. “The Um Saga waive the death penalty if an escaped slave turns in another. They’ll take me off the streets and put me to work in a factory. I’ll live longer. Maybe I’ll find a woman, have children….” He shrugged.

“But they’ll kill us!” Jebel roared.

“So what?” sneered Khubtha. “You’d have done the same thing if you’d been a bit smarter. I feel bad about Tel Hesani — he’s an honorable man — but you deserve all this and more. You Um Aineh only think of yourselves. Did you offer to share your warm clothes with us?” He ripped Jebel’s cloak away and draped it around Tel Hesani’s shoulders. The Um Kheshabah didn’t react. He was staring at the ground, making his peace with God.

“All right,” one of the soldiers said, binding Jebel’s hands. “Take them away.”

“Where?” Jebel asked sickly.

“The Uneishu,” Khubtha answered with grim satisfaction. “That’s the Disi court. It’s always open for business. Justice works quickly and surely here in Abu Saga. You’ll be tried, found guilty, and executed within the next hour.”

The Uneishu was a large circular building with a domed roof. It had been home to the city’s governers for more than two hundred years. The Um Saga were a violent, abrasive race. Internal conflict was rife, and the Uneishu stayed open all hours, its judges working in rotation to sort through the dozens of cases that were brought before them in the space of an average day.

The Uneishu was divided into a series of rooms of various sizes. Jebel and Tel Hesani were marched to a large room in the middle of the building, where slave-related matters were dealt with.

The captured fugitives were placed with a group of ten slaves. Their owners were engaged in an argument in front of a podium. An elderly judge was listening with a bored expression. A handful of traders and slavers stood or sat nearby, following the case. Often, if an argument couldn’t be settled, the slaves were sold off and the profits split between the two parties. The gathered gentlemen were in search of a bargain.

Jebel felt numb. He couldn’t believe that he was about to die. And executed too — what an irony! He had fled from home to chase his dream of becoming executioner, and now he was going to die by the blade of an axe.

Tel Hesani was praying. He asked God to forgive him any outstanding sins. He prayed for the safety of his family and even put in a good word for Jebel, though the boy wasn’t high on his list of priorities. He hoped, most of all, that it would be a quick, painless death.

As Tel Hesani prayed, a strange-looking pair slipped into the room and sidled up behind the slavers and traders. Bush and Blair had heard about the capture and had come to see Jebel and Tel Hesani beheaded.

“Let us pray most fervently for a rusty blade,” Blair muttered.

“And a feeble executioner who needs five or six chops to finish the job,” Bush snarled, then frowned. “The three-strikes rule doesn’t apply here, does it?”

“No,” Blair said. “Their executioners are not as skilled as the Um Aineh’s, so they let them hack away as many times as they need.”

“Good,” said Bush sourly. They were both bitter, not just at the loss of their slave but because, as Jebel’s owners, they had been forced to pay towards his recapture.

The case before the judge was decided — a split ruling, slaves to be auctioned off immediately. The slavers and traders bid on the group, and the highest bidder made off with them, delighted with his purchase.

Jebel and Tel Hesani were led up next.

“Escaped slaves,” the soldier with them grunted.

“Did they injure anyone?” the judge asked.

“Broke one of my men’s legs.”

“Does he want them tortured?” Death was the punishment for escape, but any other crimes committed by the slaves had to be dealt with first.

“No,” the soldier said. Actually, the man with the broken leg did wish to see them suffer, but he wasn’t present, and the arresting officer couldn’t care less — he only wanted to get home to bed.

“Have the costs of pursuit and capture been settled?” asked the judge.

“Yes.” The soldier nodded at Bush and Blair. “The younger slave belonged to them. They covered half. I know who the other one belonged to, and he’s good for the money. I’ll collect it tomorrow.”

The judge fixed his gaze on Jebel and Tel Hesani. “We don’t tolerate your kind here,” he growled. “Slaves are property, and we expect property to remain where we place it. You will be taken to the room adjacent to this and hanged until dead.”

“ Hanged? ” Bush yelped. When the judge glared at him, Bush bowed obediently. “Forgive the interruption, your worship, but we were told that their heads were to be chopped off.”

“Our executioner hurt his back riding,” the judge explained. “Hanging is easier, and the result’s the same, so—”

“Again, I beg your forgiveness,” Bush cut in, “but we were charged the cost of a professional executioner. If you’re just going to stick ropes around their necks, I imagine the sums involved will be considerably less.”

“Very well,” said the judge irritably. “You can arrange a partial refund with my clerk. I’ll leave you to argue the price with him and the arresting officer.”

The soldier groaned and rolled his eyes. Bush smiled, bowed again, and sat down.

“Now,” the judge said, waving at Jebel and Tel Hesani, “it only remains—”

“A moment,” somebody murmured, and the judge fell silent. A broad, squat man stepped forward from where he had been standing in the shadows by the doorway. He was an Um Saga, but he looked different from most of his race. He had shaven his head and beard, and there were red streaks under his eyes, as if he’d wept tears of blood. He gripped a thick walking stick adorned with a baby vulture’s skull. He wore a thin robe, cut away at the shoulders to reveal his arms. He wasn’t wearing shoes.

The man circled Jebel and Tel Hesani, studying them with small, dark eyes. He paid close attention to the mark on Tel Hesani’s face and Jebel’s tattoo, clearly visible now that his cloak had been taken from him. There was something strange about the man’s head, but it took Jebel a while to realize that the lower, fleshy lobes of both his ears had been cut off, as had the flesh at the sides of his nostrils.

The soldier guarding Jebel and Tel Hesani nervously stepped away from the mysterious man. Even the judge looked uneasy. Nothing was said while he circled the slaves. When he was satisfied, he turned towards the judge.

“I want them.”

The judge cleared his throat. “Qasr Bint… I appreciate your position, but these are condemned men. May I suggest the ten who have just been—”

“I want only two,” Qasr Bint said quietly.

“We can cull a couple from the group,” the judge said. “Or from tomorrow’s stock if those tonight were not to your—”