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Rashed Rum stepped forward and Jebel fell silent along with the rest of the crowd. The day’s final criminal was led to the platform, an elderly man who had stolen food from a stall. He was an um Wadi, but he behaved like a slave, weeping and begging for mercy. He made Jebel feel ashamed. People booed, but Rashed Rum’s expression didn’t flicker. They were all the same to him, the brave and the cowardly, the high and the low, the just and the wicked. It wasn’t an executioner’s place to stand in judgement, just to cut off heads.
The elderly man’s feet were tied together, but he still tried to jerk free of the executioner’s block. In the end J’An and J’Al had to hold him in place while their father took aim and cut off his head.
J’An would come of age in a year and join one of Wadi’s regiments. When J’An left, their father would need a new assistant to help J’Al. The position should be offered to Jebel, but he doubted it would be. He was thin, so people thought he was weak. He hoped his father would give him a chance to prove himself, but he was prepared for disappointment.
Debbat turned to leave and so did the other people in the square. But they all stopped short when Rashed Rum called out, “Your ears for a moment, please.”
An excited murmur ran through the crowd — this was the first time in thirty years that Rashed Rum had spoken after an execution. He took off his black, hooded mask and toyed with it shyly. Although he was a legendary executioner, he wasn’t used to speaking in public. He coughed, then laughed. “I had the words clear in my head this morning, but now I’ve forgotten them!”
People chuckled, a couple clapped, then there was silence again. Rashed Rum continued. “I’ve been executioner for thirty years, and I reckon I’ve got maybe another ten in me if I stay on.”
“Fifteen!” someone yelled.
“Twenty!”
The burly beheader smiled. “Maybe. But I don’t want to push myself. A man should know when it is time to step aside.”
There was a collective gasp. Jebel couldn’t believe what he was hearing. There had been no talk of this at home, at least not in his presence.
“I’ve always hoped that one of my sons might follow in my footsteps,” Rashed Rum went on. “J’An and J’Al are fine boys, two of the best in Wadi, and either would make a fine executioner.”
As people nodded, Jebel felt like he was about to be sick. He knew he was the frail one in the family, not as worthy as his brothers, but to be snubbed by their father in public was a shame beyond that of a thousand whippings. He sneaked a quick look at Debbat Alg. She was fully focused on Rashed Rum, but he knew she would recall this later and mock him. All of his friends would.
“J’An will be a man in a year,” Rashed Rum said, “and J’Al two years after that. If I carry on, they won’t be able to fight for the chance to take my place.” Only teenage boys could compete for the post of executioner. “I asked the high lord for his blessing last night and he granted it. So I’m serving a year’s notice. On this day in twelve months, I’ll swing my axe for the final time. The winner of the mukhayret will then take my place as Wadi’s executioner.”
That was the end of Rashed Rum’s speech. He withdrew, leaving the crowd to feverishly debate the announcement. Runners were swiftly dispatched to spread the news. Everyone in Wadi would know of it by sunset.
The post of executioner was prized above all others. The god of iron, Aiehn Asad, had personally chosen the first ever executioner of Wadi hundreds of years ago, and every official beheader since then had stood second only to the high lord in the city, viewed by the masses as an ambassador of the gods. An executioner was guaranteed a place by his god’s side in the afterlife, and as long as he didn’t break any laws, nobody could replace him until he chose to step aside or died.
J’An and J’Al knew all of this, yet they remained on the platform, mopping up blood, acting as if this was an ordinary day. In a year the pair would stand against each other in the fierce tournament of the mukhayret, and fight as rivals with the rest of the would-be executioners. If one of them triumphed, his life would be changed forever and almost unlimited power would be his for the taking. But until then, they were determined to carry on as normal, as their father had taught them.
Near the front of the crowd, Debbat Alg gazed at J’An and J’Al with calculating eyes. On the day of the mukhayret, the winner could choose any maid in Wadi to be his wife. More often than not, the new executioner selected a maid from the high family, to confirm his approval of the high lord, so it was likely that one of the brothers would choose her. She was trying to decide which she preferred the look of so that she could pick one to cheer for. J’An had a long, wide nose and thick lips which made many a maid’s knees tremble. J’Al was sleeker, his hair cut tight to complement the shape of his head, with narrow but piercing eyes. The inside of J’An’s right ear had been intricately tattooed, while J’Al wore a studded piece of wood through the flesh above his left eye. Both brothers were handsome and up to date with the latest fashions. It was going to be difficult to choose.
Beside Debbat, Bastina also stared at J’An and J’Al, but sadly. She was thinking of all the heads the new executioner would lop off, all the lives he’d take. The Rum brothers had been kind to her over the years. She didn’t like to think of one of them with all that blood on his hands.
And beside Bastina, Jebel stared too. But he wasn’t thinking of his brothers, the mukhayret tournament or even Debbat Alg. He only had thoughts for his father’s words, the horrible way he had been overlooked, and the dark cloud under which he must now live out the rest of his miserable, shameful years.
TWO
Jebel wandered the streets of Wadi as if stunned by lightning. It was the middle of summer, so most people retired to the shade as the sun slid towards its noon zenith. But Jebel took no notice of the heat. He shuffled along like a bound slave, his father’s insult ringing in his ears.
He had never been especially close to Rashed Rum. Like all Um Aineh, his father prized strength above everything else. He was proud of his first two sons, the way they’d fought as children, the bloodied noses they’d endured without complaint, the times they’d taken a whipping without crying.
Jebel had never been able to keep pace with J’An and J’Al. All his life he’d been thin, wiry, weak. He didn’t have the build or the fire in his heart to be a champion, so he was of little interest to Rashed Rum. His father and brothers had always been kind to him – they were a close-knit family and took all of their meals together – but casually mocking at the same time. They loved Jebel, but made it clear in a dozen minor, unintentional ways every day that they didn’t consider him an equal.
Jebel didn’t think his father had meant to offend him when he made his announcement. His youngest son probably never even crossed his mind. Most likely he assumed that Jebel was set on being a teacher or trader, so why would the boy care if his father praised his brothers and overlooked him?
But that wasn’t the case. Jebel had always dreamt of becoming a warrior. He studied himself in the mirror every morning, hoping his body had grown overnight, that his muscles had thickened. Some boys came into their prime later than others. Jebel wanted to be strong like his brothers, to impress his father.
Now that could never be. His father had shamed him in public and that stain would stay with him like the tattoo of the axe on his left shoulder, the sign that he was an executioner’s son. Jebel had thought he could go far with that tattoo, even given his slim build, as everyone had great respect for the executioner’s family, but no regiment would want him now. People didn’t forget an insult of this kind, not in Abu Aineh. How could you ask to join a regiment of warriors if your own father had made it clear in public that he didn’t consider you up to such a task?
Jebel felt like crying, but didn’t. He had been five years old the last time he’d cried. He had woken from a nightmare, weeping and shaking, and moaned the name of the mother he’d never known, begging her spirit to come and comfort him. Rashed Rum overheard and solemnly told Jebel the next morning that if he ever wept again, he would be disowned and cast out. It was a promise, not a threat, and Jebel had fought off tears ever since.
Jebel walked until he could deny his thirst no longer. Slumping by the side of a well, he drank deeply, rested a while, then made his sorry way home. He didn’t want to go back and wouldn’t have returned if he’d had anywhere else to go.
He passed Bastina’s house on his way. This was one of her free afternoons, so she had come home after the executions to help with the housework. Servants of the high lord had to work almost as hard as slaves, and had nowhere near as much freedom as others in the city, but it was a position of great honour and they were guaranteed a place by their god of choice in the next world when they died.
Bastina was out on the street, beating rugs, as Jebel went by. She stopped, laid down the rug, picked up a jug of water and handed it to him. He drank from it without thinking to thank her, then poured the remains over his head, shaking the water from his short dark curls. Bastina tugged softly at her nose ring while he was drinking, studying him seriously. He lacked his brothers’ good looks – his nose was thin and slightly crooked, his lips were thin, his cheeks were soft and light where they should be firm and dark – but Bastina found him passable nevertheless.
“How long have you been walking?” she asked and Jebel shrugged. “You could get sunstroke, wandering around all day.”
“Good,” Jebel snorted. “Maybe the sun will kill me if I walk long enough.”
“I’m sorry,” Bastina said quietly.
“Why?”
“Your father should have mentioned you along with J’An and J’Al.”
“He’s got more important things to think about than me.”
“Fathers should treat their sons equally,” Bastina disagreed. “Even…”
“Even if one’s a thin, no-good rat?” Jebel said stiffly.
“Don’t,” Bastina whispered, dropping her gaze.
“Don’t what?” Jebel challenged her.
“Don’t hurt me just to make yourself feel better.”
Jebel’s anger faded. He didn’t say sorry, but he touched her nose ring. “New?”
“Three days.” Bastina grimaced. “It hurt when it was pierced. I’m not looking forward to the next one.”
“It’s nice,” Jebel said. As Bastina smiled, he added, “But not as nice as Debbat’s new ear-ring.”
“Of course not,” Bastina said sullenly. “I can’t afford the same rings or clothes as a high maid.”
“That’s a pity,” said Jebel, thinking about Debbat’s tight blouses. Then he recalled his father’s speech and sighed. “What am I going to do, Bas? Everybody will laugh at me. How can I face my friends, feeling like a worm? I…”
He stopped, dismayed that he’d revealed his true feelings. “Never mind,” he grunted, pushing past Bastina.
“You could talk to your father,” Bastina said softly.
Jebel paused and looked back. “What?”
“Tell him how he hurt you. Explain your feelings. Maybe you can–”
“Are you mad?” Jebel burst out. “Tell him he made a mistake? He’d whip me till I dropped! It’s bad enough as it is — I’ll end up a damn teacher or judge. But if I whine like a girl, he’ll send me off to do women’s work.”
“I was only trying to help,” Bastina said.
“How can an ugly little troll like you help?” Jebel sneered.
“At least I’m not a runt!” Bastina shouted and instantly regretted it.
Jebel’s lips trembled. For a moment he thought about strangling Bastina – he’d be executed if he did, and all his worries would be behind him – but then he came to his senses and he slumped to the ground.
“I’m ruined, Bas,” Jebel groaned. “I can’t live like this. Every day I’ll be reminded of what my father said, the way he disgraced me. I dreamt of proving myself in the regiments, of maybe even serving the high lord, but no one will want me now.”
Tears welled up in Bastina’s eyes. She crouched beside Jebel and took his hand. “You can’t think like that. A warrior’s life isn’t for everyone. You have to make the best of what you have.”
Jebel didn’t hear her. He was thinking. “Maybe I’ll enter the mukhayret,” he muttered. “I can’t win, but if I made it past the first few rounds…”
“No,” Bastina said, squeezing his hand. “You can’t compete against the likes of J’An and J’Al. People would mock you. It would make things worse.”
“I might surprise them,” Jebel persisted. “Maybe make it to the last eight. If I did, my father would be proud of me.”
Bastina shook her head. “Only the strongest enter the mukhayret. People will sneer and make fun of you if you put yourself forward as a genuine contender.”
“Not if I made it to the last eight,” Jebel said stubbornly.
“But you wouldn’t!” Bastina lost her temper with her foolish friend. “You’d be crushed in the first round, humiliated in front of the whole city. You’re not a warrior, Jebel, and even Sabbah Eid couldn’t turn you into…”
Jebel’s head shot up and Bastina winced. She smiled shakily. “What I mean–”
“Sabbah Eid,” Jebel interrupted, his brown eyes lighting up.
“No,” Bastina groaned. “Don’t even think–”
“Sabbah Eid!” Jebel exclaimed and leapt to his feet. “Bas, you’re wonderful!” He bent and kissed her forehead, then ran off before she could say anything else, leaving her to sit in the dust, cursing herself for the suicidal notion which she had inadvertently placed in Jebel’s dizzy head.
THREE
The high maid Debbat Alg was watering flowers in one of her father’s gardens. Debbat enjoyed gardening. It was her only pastime, apart from looking beautiful. Her servants did most of the hard work – sowing, seeding, digging – but Debbat often watered and pruned in the spring and summer evenings.
She was examining a cluster of pink roses near a wall when somebody hissed overhead. Looking up, she was astonished to spot skinny Jebel Rum in a tree, grinning down at her like a cat.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Debbat shouted, taking a step back.
“Quiet!” Jebel pleaded. “I need to talk with you. I have a favour to ask.”
Debbat’s eyes narrowed. “You disappeared swiftly this morning,” she chuckled wickedly.
Jebel pretended he hadn’t heard. “I need your help.”
“With what?” Debbat snorted. “Getting down out of that tree?”
“No. I want to quest, but I need permission. Your father–”
“Wait a minute,” Debbat interrupted. “You want to quest?”
“Yes.”
“Quest where? For what?”
Jebel paused for effect, then said, “To Tubaygat, to petition Sabbah Eid.”
Debbat’s jaw dropped. “You’re mad!” she squealed.
“I’m going to become the new executioner,” Jebel said. “I can’t win the mukhayret as I am, so I’m going to quest. I’ll work my way north to Tubaygat, ask Sabbah Eid to give me inhuman strength and make me invincible, then return. Nobody can stop me winning then.”
“Indeed not,” Debbat said mockingly. “Nobody could stop you becoming high lord either, if you had a mind to.”
“But I don’t,” Jebel said. “I’ll swear to that if your father will hear my request. That’s one of the reasons I don’t want to ask my own father, so there can be no trouble between our families.”
“The other reason being he wouldn’t let you go.” Debbat laughed. “It’s been a hundred years since anybody completed a quest to Tubaygat. Dozens of our finest warriors have died trying, or returned defeated and shamed. What makes you think you’ll fare any better?”
“I’ve nothing to lose,” Jebel said softly. “I’m shamed anyway if I stay.”
Debbat started to dismiss him. He was a silly boy and he was wasting her time. But then she saw his look of glum determination and stopped. She was sure he’d fail, but in the unlikely event that he did return triumphant, he would be the most revered man in Abu Aineh. He would become the executioner and claim her as his wife. Her mother had taught her never to offend those you might one day be at the mercy of.
“What makes you think my father will hear your request?” she asked.
“You’re his favourite daughter,” Jebel said. “He’ll listen if you enter a plea on my behalf.”
“Why should I? I’d have to vouch for you. I’d be discredited if you failed.”
“No,” Jebel said. “I’ll quest in your name. If I die, you’ll be honoured. If I fail and survive, I give my word that I’ll never come back.”
Debbat was excited. No one had ever quested in her name. Her friends would be jealous when they found out, even if the quester was only pathetic Jebel Rum.
“Very well,” Debbat said. “I’ll ask him. I’ll wait until he’s eaten — he’s always in a good mood then. Return tonight and bring your slave.”
“What slave?” Jebel frowned.
Debbat gave him a withering look. “You can’t face Sabbah Eid without a slave, or have you forgotten? Maybe I–”
“Of course,” Jebel interrupted. “I’ll sort that out, then return… when? Eight of the clock?”
“Make it nine.” Debbat turned back to her roses.
Jebel hung in the tree a few more moments, watching Debbat’s bare shoulders and the curve of her neck. He let himself dream of a future where he won the mukhayret, claimed Debbat Alg and became executioner. Then he shook his head and slid down the tree. He had to find a slave, but it wouldn’t be easy. To complete his quest, he would need to kill the person who came with him. He had no idea how he could convince a man to let himself be sacrificed by Jebel to the fire god, Sabbah Eid.
FOUR
Fruth was a town for slaves in the north-east of Wadi, separated from the rest of the city by a tall, thick fence. The town had been built to cut down on running costs, which had been crippling the lords and ladies of Wadi. In the past, slaves lived with their owners, who had to feed and clothe them. But as the slaves bred and the conquering Um Aineh added more to their stock every year, it reached a point where the um Wadi could not afford to support them all. More than one rich family had ended up destituting itself in a desperate attempt to run a large household of hungry slaves.
