The Thin Executioner. Даррен Шэн

wanted to back out, but it was too late. He had already told Bastina and Debbat about his decision. Bastina wouldn’t be a problem if he changed his mind, but Debbat would be merciless. She’d tell everyone. Better to kill himself and…

      “No,” he muttered. “Take it a step at a time. If I can find a slave, I’ll deal with the next problem. Then the problem after that, and the one after that, and…”

      Jebel studied the slaves curiously as he wandered. He hadn’t much experience of these low people. His father didn’t trust slaves and preferred to pay servants to look after his children.

      Most were from Abu Rashrasha or Abu Kheshabah. They were pale, pasty creatures, some the colour of milk, with limp, straight hair, in many cases blond or ginger. Most of them had blue or green eyes and they were less physically developed than other tribes of the Eastern Nations, small and slender.

      Jebel knew little about slaves, what their lives were like, whether they had one wife, two or twenty. He didn’t even know if they married. How should he approach one and convince him to travel to Tubaygat and give up his life for the glory of Jebel Rum? He couldn’t bribe the slave — even if he had money, it wouldn’t be much good. “I’ll pay you fifty gold swagah when you’re dead.” Ludicrous!

      Jebel had heard many stories about famous questers, how they’d journeyed to Tubaygat, the adventures they’d faced, their defeats and conquests. But he’d never been told how they picked their sacrificial companions.

      Jebel stopped outside one of the noisier houses. The rooms were brightly lit and the thin curtains were a mix of vivid pinks, blues and greens. Women hovered outside, calling to men, inviting them in for drinks and company.

      Perhaps he could pay one of the women to accompany him. Questers normally took a male slave, but it wasn’t obligatory. A woman could be sacrificed too. Jebel could lie, tell her he wanted her for companionship, then…

      No. A quester had to be pure. It would be shameful to trick a slave. Besides, while he didn’t know the price of such women, he was sure he couldn’t afford to pay one to travel with him for months on end.

      While Jebel considered his dilemma, the cloth over the doorway was swept back and an um Wadi staggered out, a woman on each arm. He was laughing and the women were pouring wine into his mouth.

      “Take me where there’s song!” the man shouted. He was drunk, but not entirely senseless. “This is a night for singing!”

      “I can think of better things than singing,” one of the women purred.

      The man laughed. “Later. First I want to…” He spotted Jebel and beamed. “Do you wish to join our party, young one?”

      Jebel stiffened and turned to leave.

      “Wait!” the man barked, spotting the tattoo on Jebel’s shoulder. “You’re one of Rashed Rum’s boys, aren’t you?”

      “Who’s asking?” Jebel replied cautiously — it was never wise to reveal your identity to a stranger.

      “J’An Nasrim,” the man said, pushing the women away. They yelled angrily, but he ignored them and walked over to grasp Jebel warmly. “Surely you remember your father’s old rogue of a friend.”

      “Of course,” Jebel said, smiling. “It is good to see you, sir. I’m Jebel, his youngest son.”

      J’An Nasrim and his father sometimes played cards together. J’An was a trader who travelled widely. Rashed Rum enjoyed listening to his tales of far-off lands, even though he always said the pirate’s neck would wind up on his block one day.

      “What are you doing in Fruth?” J’An asked. He waved a hand at the women. “On the prowl?”

      “No, sir,” Jebel chuckled. “I…” He coughed. “I have business here.”

      “Then I’ll leave you to it,” J’An said, putting his palms together in the age-old sign of goodwill.

      J’An Nasrim was on his way back to the women when Jebel spoke quickly. “Sir, I need help. I wouldn’t ask except…” He trailed off into silence.

      “Except there’s nobody else around!” J’An laughed. He cast a curious eye over Jebel, then clapped his hands. “Away, wenches. This young um Wadi requires my advice. I’ll track you down later if I can find my way back.”

      The women grumbled, but J’An tossed some swagah their way and that calmed their temper. Wrapping an arm around Jebel, he led him to a quieter square, where they could sit on a warped bench and talk without having to shout.

      “So,” J’An said when they were settled, “how can I be of help?”

      Jebel wasn’t sure how to start. After a short silence, he blurted out, “I’m going on a quest.”

      J’An squinted. “You’re a little on the young side, but old enough I guess. You want me to share a few travel tips with you?”

      “No. The quest is… it’s not straightforward… I mean… oh, I’m going to Tubaygat!” Jebel cried. “I want to petition Sabbah Eid.”

      J’An Nasrim blinked. A few seconds later, he blinked again. “Well,” he said, scratching the tattoo of a woman on his left arm. “Tubaygat… I can’t help you with that. Never been further north than Disi, and that was by boat. Dangerous country, Abu Saga.”

      “I know,” Jebel said. “But that’s not what I wanted to ask you about. I’m stuck already. I need a slave, but I’ve no idea how to get one.”

      J’An frowned. “Can’t your father help?”

      “He doesn’t know,” Jebel whispered.

      J’An’s frown deepened, then cleared. “Of course. I heard about Rashed’s announcement. Early retirement, so his sons might compete for the honour of replacing him. But the way I heard it, he only spoke of his eldest boys.”

      “Word of my humiliation has even made it to Fruth,” Jebel snarled.

      “Never underestimate those who serve,” J’An said. “Slaves here often know of city intrigues hours before anybody else.”

      J’An leant back, thoughtfully rubbing a tattooed ear. He was an especially dark-skinned man, but his eyes were bright blue, evidence that one of his ancestors had come from a foreign land.

      “You’ll find Sabbah Eid and ask him to make you invincible and strong,” J’An said. “Then you’ll come back, win the mukhayret and earn the respect of your father. Is that the sum of it?”

      “Pretty much,” Jebel said uneasily.

      “A fool’s quest,” snorted J’An.

      “I’m no fool,” Jebel protested. “I have to win back my good name. My father disgraced me and I want to be able to walk with pride again.”

      “And if you die on the quest?” J’An asked.

      Jebel shrugged. “At least I’ll die as a proud um Wadi.”

      J’An shook his head. “I normally never tell another man his business, but…” He scowled. “No. I won’t this time either. I think you’re mad, but on your head be it. You’re old enough to waste your life if you wish. I don’t have the right to stop you, so tell me how I can help.”

      “I need a slave,” Jebel said once more. “I think I can get the permission of the high lord to quest, but I have no one to sacrifice. The trouble is, I’ve no idea–”

      “–how to convince a slave to travel with you.” J’An Nasrim nodded. “That’s one of the problems with questing to Tubaygat. I’m sure you’re not the first to struggle with it. Of course, it doesn’t have to be a slave. Have you any close friends who would go with you and lay down their lives on your behalf?”

      “No.”

      “Then