Darren Shan - The Thin Executioner

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 colored rope hanging from the crossbeam.

“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 color, and paintings hung in many places. There was a round table in the center, 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 leaned 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 honor.”

“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 favored god. But usually it’s a slave.”

“I see.” Tel Hesani broke off another chunk of bread, smeared it in drippings, 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.”