The Thin Executioner. Даррен Шэн

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      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 hope you don’t freeze when you kiss Bas,” Debbat laughed.

      Bastina was crying. It wasn’t because she had to kiss Jebel — he wasn’t that ugly. She always cried at executions. She had a soft heart and her mother had told her many stories when she was growing up, of their ancestors and how they had suffered. Bastina couldn’t think of these people as criminals who had no right to life any more. She identified with them and always wondered about their families, how their husbands or wives might feel, how their children would survive without them.

      “Come on then,” Jebel said, taking hold of the weeping girl’s jaw and tilting her head back. He wiped away the worst of her tears, then quickly kissed her. She was still crying when he released her and he pulled a face. “I’ve never seen anyone else cry when a person’s executed.”

      “It’s horrible,” Bastina moaned. “So brutal…”

      “She was fairly judged,” said Jebel. “She broke the law, so she can’t complain.”

      Bastina shook her head, but said nothing more. She knew that the woman had committed a crime, that a judge had heard the case against her and found her guilty. A slave had no automatic right to a hearing – her mistress could have killed her on the spot – but she had been afforded the ear of the courts and been judged the same as a free Um Aineh. By all of their standards, it was legal and fair. Yet still Bastina shuddered when she thought about how the woman had died.

      “Why aren’t you muscular like your brothers?” Debbat asked out of the blue, squeezing Jebel’s bony arm. “You’re as thin as an Um Kheshabah.”

      “I’m a late developer,” Jebel snapped, tearing his arm free and flushing angrily. “J’Al was the same when he was my age and J’An wasn’t much bigger.”

      “Nonsense,” Debbat snorted. “I remember what they looked like. You’ll never be strong like them.”

      Jebel bristled, but the high maid had spoken truly. He was the runt of the Rum litter. His mother had died giving birth to him, which boded well for his future. Rashed Rum thought he had a tiny monster on his hands, one who would grow up to be a fierce warrior. But Jebel never lived up to his early promise. He’d always been shorter and skinnier than other boys his age.

      “Jebel doesn’t need to be big,” Bastina said, sticking up for her friend — her mother had been his nurse, so they had grown up together. “He’s clever. He’s going to be a teacher or a judge.”

      “Shut up!” Jebel barked furiously. Abu Aineh was a nation where warriors were prized above all others. Very few boys dreamt of growing up to be a teacher.

      “You’d be a good judge,” Bastina said. “You wouldn’t be cruel.”

      “Judges aren’t cruel,” said Debbat, rolling her eyes. “They simply punish the guilty. We’d be no better than the Um Safafaha without them.”

      “That’s right,” Jebel said. “Not that I’m going to become one,” he added with a dark glare at Bastina. “I’m going to be a warrior. I’ll fight for the high lord.”

      “You? One of my father’s guards?” Debbat frowned. “You’re too thin. Only the strongest um Wadi serve the high lord.”

      “You don’t know anything about it,” Jebel huffed. “You’re just a girl. You–”

      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, СКАЧАТЬ