The Thin Executioner. Даррен Шэн

in the savage’s tone alerted them to the possibility of bloodshed. Since a good fight was the only thing better than a game of cards, they focused on the young um Wadi and his tall, silent slave.

      Jebel was afraid, but he thought fast. In a fair fight, he wouldn’t stand a chance. He could try to bribe his way out, but if the Um Safafaha knew about the gold and silver they were carrying, he’d kill Jebel and take it all. If they ran, they’d never make it to the door. He thought about calling for the law, but he was sure that soldiers were well paid by the innkeepers to turn a blind eye to matters such as this.

      Jebel decided to try a bluff. If he joked with the Um Safafaha and offered to get him a drink while they waited for the rest of his party to turn up, he might buy them some time. The savage would probably return to his game and lose interest in Jebel and Tel Hesani. But before he could chance the bluff, somebody spoke from the table beside him.

      “I would be very careful, good sir, if I were you.”

      “Most cautious indeed,” said another voice.

      The Um Safafaha and Jebel both glanced sideways. They saw two sharply dressed men, one clad in a long green tunic, the other in a red shirt and blue trousers. The pair were eating from a basket of exotic food and supping wine from crystal glasses. They raised the glasses and said, “Your health, sir.”

      The savage squinted. The men were of slight build, with delicate hands, the sort of people he’d normally knock over rather than walk around. But there was something about these two which made him wary.

      “It don’t pay to poke your nose into other people’s business,” the Um Safafaha growled.

      “That is the truth of truths, wise sir,” the man in the tunic agreed. “The very truth, indeed, by which my partner and I lead our modest lives. In your position, we would under any other circumstances take a grave view of one who presumed to interfere in our private affairs.”

      “But in this case, my noble friend,” the other man said, smoothing back the hairs of a light moustache, “we feel compelled, in the spirit of cross-border relations, to intercede. We have spent much time in your country and developed something of a… I hesitate to say love… a fondness for your people.”

      “In short,” the first man concluded, “we would rather not see you killed. Especially since you are so close to us that the spray of your blood might stain our recently purchased finery.”

      The Um Safafaha blinked dumbly. Jebel and the rest of the card players stared. Tel Hesani kept his head down. The two men at the neighbouring table just smiled.

      “You think this Um Aineh pup could kill me?” the Um Safafaha finally roared. “That’s an insult!”

      “Not at all,” the man in the trousers tutted. “I am guessing you have not spent much time in Abu Aineh. You do not know how to interpret their tattoos.”

      “The boy bears the brand of a quester,” the man in the tunic said, pointing to Jebel’s arm. “It is the mark of one questing to Tubaygat – Tubga, as I believe it’s known in your fair land.”

      The Um Safafaha’s gaze lingered on Jebel’s coiled tattoo. When he looked up at the boy’s face again, he was less aggressive than before. “You’re going to the fire god’s mountain?” he asked.

      Jebel nodded. The savage with the half-shaven head spat on the floor. Then he put his bare right foot on the spit and smeared it into the boards. Jebel knew enough about the man’s customs to recognise this as an apology.

      “I was only having fun with you,” the Um Safafaha grunted.

      “That’s all right,” Jebel said, trying not to stutter.

      “Luck be with you on your quest,” the savage said, then turned back to his cards and glowered at the other players. No one was foolish enough to mock him and the game resumed as if it had never been interrupted.

      Jebel turned to face the two men and smiled shakily. “Thank you,” he said.

      “Think nothing of it,” the man in the tunic chuckled, then moved up the bench. “Would you care to sit with us and partake of our modest feast?”

      “Your servant is welcome too,” the man in the trousers said.

      “He’s a slave, not a servant,” Jebel said, taking his place.

      “That makes no difference to us,” the man said. “We’re all slaves of the gods. We’d happily share our table with even the lowest of men. Who knows the day when we might be demoted to their ranks?”

      Jebel wasn’t comfortable with the idea of eating at the same table as a slave, but he didn’t want to be impolite to the strangers who had saved his life, so he said nothing as Tel Hesani sat down opposite him, for all the world a free and equal man.

      “Well, young sir,” the man in the tunic said. “Introductions are in order. My grandfather, rest his spirit, told me to never break bread with someone unless you know their name. I am Master Bush and this is my good friend and business partner, Master Blair.”

      “A pleasure to meet you,” Jebel replied. “I’m Jebel Rum and this is my slave, Tel Hesani.”

      “I hope you don’t mind that we intervened,” Master Bush said, offering the basket to Jebel, then to Tel Hesani. “We’re well aware that questers are more than capable of solving their own problems, but we felt on this occasion that you might… not exactly need… but welcome our modest interjection.”

      “The Um Safafaha are a beastly bunch,” Master Blair said, not lowering his voice, even though the savage sitting nearby might overhear. “We thought it would save time if we pointed out your brand to him and spared you the nuisance of having to prove your undoubted strength and courage in a needless, tiring fight.”

      “Your help was appreciated,” Jebel said, biting into a delicious leg of chicken. “It’s been a long day and I’m not at my sharpest. I wasn’t sure how to handle him. If you hadn’t spoken up when you did…”

      “Oh, I’m sure you would have taken care of matters on your own,” Master Bush laughed. “We just did you… not even a favour… shall we say a very minor service. This is a town of savages. We kinsfolk have to look out for one another.”

      “You’re from Abu Aineh?” Jebel asked. “I thought you might be, by the way you spoke, but you don’t look like Um Aineh.”

      Both men were small. Master Bush was light skinned, only slightly darker than Tel Hesani, with bright blue eyes. His long hair was tied back in a ponytail and he sported a fine goatee beard, so thin that Jebel missed it first time round. Master Blair was darker, but he wore trousers, rare for one of Jebel’s countrymen. His hair was cut to his shoulders and his moustache was carefully maintained. Neither man was tattooed. Jebel had never seen a pair like this, but if he’d had to guess, he would have said they were from the far west of Abu Nekhele.

      “Oh, we’re Um Aineh sure enough,” Master Blair sighed. “But from the border with Abu Rashrasha. We were born on the banks of the as-Burdah. We both come from mixed backgrounds – our family trees are laden with all sorts of rascals – hence our appearance. Also, since we spend most of our time travelling abroad, we removed our tattoos with acid many years ago — it pays to be able to pretend you’re a native of other parts in lands where Um Aineh are less than welcome.”

      “I didn’t mean to offend you,” Jebel said quickly.

      Master Bush waved his apology away. “Don’t worry about it. You’re not the first to mistake us for foreigners. Even some of our own family don’t recognise us on the rare occasions when we return home.”

      Masters Bush and Blair spent the next couple of hours engaged in friendly chat with Jebel and Tel Hesani, although the slave didn’t say much. They told Jebel that they were traders. They had been given the title of Master many years ago by the high lord of Abu Judayda, after they had delivered a shipment of medicine to the city state during