The Thin Executioner. Даррен Шэн

      

      

      

      

      Don’t lose your head — find out more at

       www.darrenshan.com

      For:

       Jebel Rum's beloved

      OBEs (Order of the Bloody Entrails) to:

       The country of Jordan, which inspired much of this book's

       setting and plot, and whose landmarks provided the names of all

       the characters (with three exceptions) and places

      Stella Paskins honed the editorial blade for the final time

      The Um Little put their heads on the chopping block next to

       mine, as always

      Contents

      Map

      One

      Two

      Three

      Four

      Five

      Six

      Seven

      Eight

      Nine

      Ten

      Eleven

      Twelve

      Thirteen

      Fourteen

      Fifteen

      Sixteen

      Seventeen

      Eighteen

      Nineteen

      Twenty

      Twenty-One

      Twenty-Two

      Twenty-Three

      Twenty-Four

      Twenty-Five

      Twenty-Six

      Twenty-Seven

      Twenty-Eight

      Twenty-Nine

      Thirty

      Thirty-One

      Thirty-Two

      Thirty-Three

      Thirty-Four

      Thirty-Five

      Thirty-Six

      Thirty-Seven

      Thirty-Eight

      Other Books by Darren Shan

      Credits

      Copyright

      About the Publisher

      Map

      ONE

      The executioner swung his axe – thwack! – and another head went rolling into the dust. There was a loud cheer. Rashed Rum was the greatest executioner Wadi had ever seen and he always drew a large crowd, even after thirty years.

      Five executions were scheduled for that morning. Rashed had just finished off the third and was cleaning his blade. In the crowd his youngest son, Jebel, was more interested in the high maid, Debbat Alg, than his father.

      To Jebel, Debbat Alg was the most beautiful girl in Wadi. She was the same height as him, slim and curvy, with long legs, even longer hair, dazzling brown eyes and teeth so white they might have been carved from shards of the moon. Her skin was a delicious dark brown colour. She always wore a long dress, usually with a slit down the left to show off her legs. Her blouses were normally cropped and close-fitting, revealing much of her smooth stomach.

      Rashed Rum tested his blade, then stepped forward. He nodded at the guards and they led the fourth criminal – a female slave who’d struck her mistress – to the platform at the centre of the square. Jebel slid up next to Debbat and her servant, Bastina.

      “I bet she’ll need two blows,” he said.

      Debbat shot him an icy glance. “Betting against your father?” she sniffed.

      “No,” Jebel said. “But I think she’ll try to wriggle free. Slaves have no honour. They always squirm.”

      “Not this one,” Debbat said. “She has spirit. But if you want to risk a bet…”

      “I do,” Jebel grinned.

      “What stakes?” Debbat asked.

      “A kiss?” It was out of Jebel’s mouth before he knew he’d said it.

      Debbat laughed. “I could have you whipped for suggesting that.”

      “You’re just afraid you’d lose,” Jebel retorted.

      Debbat’s eyes sparkled at the thought of having Jebel punished. But then she caught sight of J’An, Jebel’s eldest brother, handing his father a drink. Debbat would have welcomed a kiss from J’An, and he knew it, but so far he’d shown no interest in her. Perhaps he thought he had no competition, that he could claim her in his own sweet time. It might be good to give him a little scare.

      “Very well,” Debbat said, startling both Jebel and Bastina. “A kiss if you win. If you lose, you have to kiss Bastina.”

      “Mistress!” Bastina objected.

      “Be quiet, Bas!” snapped Debbat.

      Bastina pouted, but she couldn’t argue. She wasn’t a slave, but she had pledged herself to serve the high family, so she had to obey Debbat’s commands.

      “Bet accepted,” Jebel said happily. Bastina had a sour, pinched face and her skin wasn’t anywhere near as dark as Debbat’s – her mother had come from a line of slaves from another country – but even if he lost and had to kiss her, it would be better than a whipping.

      On the platform the female slave was motionless, her neck resting snugly in the curve of the executioner’s block, hands tied behind her back. Her blouse and dress had been removed. She would leave this world as vulnerable as when she had entered it, as did everyone when they were executed. When the wise and merciless judges of the nation of Abu Aineh found you guilty of a crime, you were stripped of everything which had once defined who you were — your wealth, your clothing, your dignity, and finally, your head.

      Rashed Rum drank deeply. Refreshed, he wiped his hands on his knee-length, bloodstained tunic, took hold of his long-handled axe, stepped up to the block and laid the blade on the slave’s neck to mark his spot. His eyes narrowed and he breathed softly. Then he drew the axe back and swept it around and down, cutting clean through the woman’s neck.

      The slave’s head hit the base of the platform and bounced off into the crowd. The children nearest the front yelled with excitement and fought for the head, then fled with it, kicking it down the street. The heads of um Wadi or Um Aineh were treated with respect and buried along with their bodies, but slaves were worthless. Their bones were fed to dogs.

      Debbat faced Jebel Rum and smiled smugly.

      Jebel shrugged. “She must have frozen with fear.”

      “I