The Thin Executioner. Даррен Шэн

hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Jebel said sheepishly.

      “That’s the safest route,” said J’An. “But slavery’s forbidden in Abu Nekhele. You’ll need a man you can trust like a brother, one with a strong reason not to turn on you and seize his freedom.”

      J’An fell silent, considering the boy’s problem. If he’d been entirely sober, he might have marched Jebel back to his father. But wine has a way of making men act like boys, so J’An found himself taking the quest seriously.

      “Tel Hesani,” he said eventually.

      “A slave?” Jebel asked.

      “The finest I’ve ever known,” J’An said, dragging Jebel to his feet. “His father was Um Rashrasha, a trader who spent most of his time in Abu Kheshabah, where Tel was born. Tel’s father had three wives already when he met Tel’s mother, the maximum allowed by his people, so he could only keep her as a mistress. She was his favourite, and he raised Tel the same way as he would have a legitimate son. His wives were jealous of the pair. When Tel’s father died, his widows sold Tel and his mother to slavers. They were bought by different owners and he never saw her again. He has spent the rest of his life as a slave, but he is a noble and just man, a credit to the memory of his father.

      “I travelled with Tel several years ago,” J’An said, guiding Jebel through the muddy streets. “He saved my life in Abu Safafaha. I bought him and his family upon our return and petitioned the high lord for his freedom.”

      J’An sighed. “I have more enemies than friends in Wadi. I’ve offended a lot of powerful people in my time. They haven’t been able to have me executed yet, but they conspire against me whenever they can. Since I spend so much of my life on the road or seas, those opportunities are few and far between. One of their chances to spite me came when I asked the high lord to free Tel Hesani and his family. My enemies convinced him to deny my request and to revoke my right of ownership — they cooked up some charge about me swindling their original owner. The family was sold off to one of my foes.

      “Tel’s new master is working him to death,” J’An said bitterly. “Soon his time will run out. When it does, his wife and daughters will be put to work in houses like the one I was coming from when I met you, and his son will be shipped off to Abu Saga to perish down the mines.”

      J’An fell silent, his dark, bleak face all but invisible in the waning evening light. The story hadn’t moved Jebel – he found it hard to care about the fate of a slave – but he shook his head glumly and tutted, since he felt that was expected of him.

      They came to a large house with small windows and a toilet pit in front. The area around the pit was heavily coated with lime, but the stench was still incredibly foul. Jebel gagged, but J’An Nasrim ignored the fumes and steered the boy into the house.

      J’An and Jebel passed two rooms littered with sleeping mats — in Fruth, most houses were shared by a variety of families. In the second room a couple were kissing. Jebel averted his eyes and hurried after J’An up a rickety set of stairs to the first floor, then up another set to the second floor. They arrived at a doorway, dozens of long strips of coloured rope hanging from the cross-beam.

      “Entrance requested!” J’An shouted.

      There was a brief pause, then a reply. “Entrance granted.”

      J’An pushed through the strips of rope and Jebel followed. He found himself in a small room with seven sleeping mats stacked by one of the walls. Each wall had been painted a different colour and paintings hung in many places. There was a round table in the centre, knocked together from an old barrel top. Food was laid on it — bread, dripping, boiled pigs’ hoofs, rice. A feast by Fruth standards.

      Around the table sat five children – the oldest no more than eight or nine – a plump woman and a man. Jebel was only interested in the man. Taller than most slaves, almost the height of an Um Aineh, he had light brown hair cut short, pale brown eyes, a trim beard, broad hands, large feet and tight, work-honed muscles. He wore no tunic, only a long pair of trousers. He was pale-skinned, but tanned from working outside. His left cheek bore the tattoo of a slave — a dog’s skull. There were four tattoos on his lower right arm, the marks of various owners.

      “Greetings,” J’An said, bowing his head as if speaking to an equal.

      “Greetings,” Tel Hesani replied quietly.

      Tel Hesani’s wife and children didn’t speak, and wouldn’t unless their visitor addressed them, as was the custom.

      “Would you care for something to eat?” Tel Hesani asked as Jebel and J’An sat on the floor around the table.

      “No, thank you,” said J’An.

      Jebel was hungry – he hadn’t eaten since morning – but he was too proud to share a slave’s food, so he shook his head and tried to stop his stomach growling.

      “I am glad to see you,” Tel Hesani said. “I had heard of your return to Wadi and hoped you would call to see us.”

      “Don’t I always?” J’An said. “I meant to come last night, but I’ve been busy. I spent most of my last trip in the al-Breira and there are precious few women on those mountains! I’ve been making up for lost time. I have presents for Murasa and the children, but I’ve not had time to unpack. I’ll bring them over soon.”

      “You are too good to us, sir,” said Tel Hesani.

      J’An frowned. “Why so formal?”

      “Your companion…” Tel Hesani glanced at Jebel, then lowered his gaze.

      J’An smiled. “Don’t worry. This is Jebel Rum, son of an old friend of mine — Rashed Rum, the executioner.”

      “I didn’t know you had such highly placed friends,” Tel Hesani said, reaching for a piece of bread, looking more relaxed.

      “I don’t have many,” J’An said. “But Rashed doesn’t worry about politics. He picks his own friends and, given his rank, there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

      J’An and Tel Hesani spent a while catching up. J’An told the slave where he’d been on his most recent trip. Tel Hesani spoke in low tones of life on the docks, and the work his wife and children — the three eldest had all been assigned jobs by their owner — were forced to endure each day. Before they became too involved in discussions, J’An got down to the real business of the evening.

      “Jebel’s heading off on a quest tonight, the most ambitious of all, to the home of Sabbah Eid.”

      “I have heard of Sabbah Eid,” Tel Hesani said. “He is one of your gods.”

      “The father of all gods,” J’An nodded. “While the others wage eternal war in the heavens, Sabbah Eid resides on Makhras, beneath Tubaygat in the mountains of the al-Meata, the source of the mightiest of all rivers, the as-Sudat.”

      “I know the place,” Tel Hesani said, “but my people have a different name for that mountain. We believe God rested there when he came to Makhras. From the peak he observed all the suffering in the world. He was moved to tears, and his tears became the waters of the great river.”

      “Which god is that?” Jebel asked.

      “The one God,” Tel Hesani said, his calm gaze resting on the boy.

      “The Um Kheshabah believe there’s just a single god,” J’An explained, then leant forward. “How much do you know of the quest to Tubaygat?”

      “Not much,” the slave shrugged. “I heard that the god who allegedly lives there grants immortality to those who quest successfully to see him.”

      “Not immortality,” J’An said. “Invincibility. They don’t live any longer than normal, but they can’t be harmed by ordinary weapons and they have the power and strength to subdue any man who challenges them.”

      “Is that why you quest?” Tel Hesani