Darren Shan - The Thin Executioner

Jebel’s breath caught in his throat. His first impulse was to grab a weapon and strike the slave dead. But there were no knives on the table. As he wildly considered his options — perhaps he could use a pig’s hoof as a makeshift club — J’An said, “Your mouth will get you into trouble one day.”

Tel Hesani smiled without humor. He rubbed a long, fresh welt on his back. “I’ve lived with trouble a long time now.”

J’An winced. “I tried again to buy you back,” he said. “I met an Um Saga trader in the al-Breira who was on his way to Wadi. I paid him to bid for you, hoping your master wouldn’t realize I was behind it. But his offer was rejected. He was told that all the swagah in Abu Aineh couldn’t buy you.”

“Your enemies hate with a vengeance,” Tel Hesani noted drily.

“They have nothing better to do than hate and scheme,” J’An said bitterly. The table shook from where he gripped it. “You’ll die on the docks soon. Your wife and daughters will be sold to the vilest bordello-keepers in Wadi, and your son will perish down the mines in the al-Tawla.”

“A cheerless prediction,” Tel Hesani said softly. “But true.” He glanced at his family. They were staring at him expressionlessly.

“I can’t help you,” J’An said. “But I can save Murasa and your children.”

Tel Hesani’s round eyes narrowed. “You think that you can buy them?”

“Better. I can free them.”

Tel Hesani said nothing for a moment, a frown creasing his features. Finally he whispered, “How?”

“A quester to Tubaygat can’t be denied the services of his chosen slave,” J’An said. “If you agree to travel with Jebel, there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it. Your wife and children will also be assigned to him. Jebel will grant them their freedom before you leave.”

Murasa gasped and clutched her husband’s arm. He said nothing, only set his steady gaze on Jebel Rum and observed the boy silently.

Jebel thought about what J’An Nasrim had said and how the slave had called him a cur. Then he looked at J’An and said, “I don’t agree to this.”

“You have no choice,” J’An responded. “You need a slave. I’m offering you Tel Hesani. This is the price of his obedience.”

“If I set his family free, what’s to stop him killing me in my sleep and slipping away to join them?” Jebel asked.

“I give you my word that he won’t,” J’An growled.

Jebel lowered his head and placed his palm on his forehead. “I beg pardon, but your word isn’t enough. I don’t know this slave. I don’t like him. I certainly can’t trust him.”

“Listen to me, you young—” J’An roared.

“No,” Tel Hesani cut in. “The boy is right. He must have a real assurance.”

J’An let out a shaky breath. “Then you accept?” he asked Tel Hesani.

The slave shrugged. “I have already accepted death. Whether I die on the docks or on a crazy quest is of no consequence. But if I can save my family by going on the quest, then obviously I shall.”

J’An faced Jebel again. “What assurance will satisfy you?”

“I don’t know,” Jebel said, head in a spin.

“How about holding his family here for a year?” suggested J’An.

“And if Tel Hesani kills me tomorrow, then waits a year to link up with them?”

J’An cursed. “I’m sorry I ever offered to help. Let’s just forget about—”

“Wait,” Murasa said, speaking out of turn. All of the men looked at her in surprise. She was studying Jebel. Her eyes were bright green and her cheeks were fiery red. But her lips were pale as ice when she spoke. “Um Aineh have spirit witches, crones who can communicate with the dead, yes?”

“Yes,” Jebel said.

“If you accept my husband as your slave and turn us over to your father, he can hold us captive for a year. If you return, you’ll free us. If not, an Um Aineh witch will try to contact your spirit. If my husband served you well, you’ll tell her and we shall be freed. If, on the other hand, my husband betrayed you, or if the witch cannot make contact, we will go to the executioner’s block.”

“No!” Tel Hesani snapped. “Those witches are fakes. They can’t speak to the dead. They say what the person paying them wants to hear. J’An Nasrim’s enemies will bribe them to say I killed the boy.”

“Perhaps,” Murasa agreed. “But at least this way we have hope. Also, if the worst comes to the worst, I would rather die cleanly, with my children by my side, than perish slowly and in degrading conditions, cut off from them, alone.”

Murasa fell silent and Jebel gaped at her. He’d never heard a slave speak with such dignity. He’d never thought a slave could speak in such a way.

“It’s a fair proposal,” said J’An Nasrim. “I’ll make sure I’m here for the mukhayret. If you don’t return, I’ll try to have a neutral witch appointed. Tel Hesani is a faithful husband and father. If you won’t trust my word, will you trust the bond between a man and those he loves?”

Jebel had been brought up to believe that slaves knew nothing of love or duty, but he could see the pain in Tel Hesani’s eyes.

“I agree,” he blurted. “If he comes with me and lets me sacrifice him, I’ll free his family. If we fail, and he dies trying to save me, I’ll tell the witch of it if I can. But if he betrays me…”

Jebel looked at the children and drew a finger across his throat.

“So be it,” Tel Hesani said quietly. “When must we leave?”

“Immediately,” said J’An. “You’ll accompany Jebel to the high lord’s palace. It’s best if I don’t come. I’ll go instead to see Rashed and tell him of your deal. Once Jebel’s quest has been approved, the two of you will start out.”

“Very well.” Tel Hesani pushed himself away from the table, stood, and pointed to the doorway. “Will you wait outside? There are some things I wish to say to my family before we depart.”

J’An Nasrim put his hands together and bowed. A reluctant Jebel did the same. Then the pair withdrew, leaving Tel Hesani to bid farewell to the wife and children he would never see again after that night.

The palace of the high lord was centuries old, although many new buildings had been added to it during that time. In one of the palace’s older, smaller rooms, Wadi Alg (all high lords took the name of the city) was digesting a delicious meal and studying a scrawny boy who stood trembling by the doorway. By Wadi Alg’s side his daughter Debbat was playing with her father’s hair and muttering in his ear.

“Imagine the glory it would bring to Wadi. It’s been a hundred years since Abu Aineh could last boast of a successful Tubaygat quester, and more than four hundred since an um Wadi had the honor.”

“True,” Wadi Alg nodded. “But this boy doesn’t look like he’ll break the barren run. He’s thin, daughter. I’ve seen more muscles on a frog.”

Debbat stifled a laugh, then slapped her father playfully. “You mustn’t say such things. Jebel might not look like much, but he’s Rashed Rum’s son and he plans to quest to Tubaygat. He deserves respect.”

“I apologize,” the high lord grinned, then glanced at his wife for advice.

“The boy’s a sorry example of an um Wadi,” Danafah Alg sneered. “But he is the executioner’s son. If we dismiss him, Rashed Rum might feel insulted. We should let him quest.”

“But he’s so… puny ,” the high lord protested. “We’d be sending him to certain death.”

“At least he would die with honor,” Danafah said. “If he remains, what sort of a man will he become — a trader or teacher? That’s no life for an executioner’s son. Rashed Rum will thank us for this. The boy has been an embarrassment since birth. With our help, he can redeem himself and die for the glory of Wadi.”