The Thin Executioner. Даррен Шэн

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СКАЧАТЬ Rum said, “and J’Al two years after that. If I carry on, they won’t be able to fight for the chance to take my place.” Only teenage boys could compete for the post of executioner. “I asked the high lord for his blessing last night and he granted it. So I’m serving a year’s notice. On this day in twelve months, I’ll swing my axe for the final time. The winner of the mukhayret will then take my place as Wadi’s executioner.”

      That was the end of Rashed Rum’s speech. He withdrew, leaving the crowd to feverishly debate the announcement. Runners were swiftly dispatched to spread the news. Everyone in Wadi would know of it by sunset.

      The post of executioner was prized above all others. The god of iron, Aiehn Asad, had personally chosen the first ever executioner of Wadi hundreds of years ago, and every official beheader since then had stood second only to the high lord in the city, viewed by the masses as an ambassador of the gods. An executioner was guaranteed a place by his god’s side in the afterlife, and as long as he didn’t break any laws, nobody could replace him until he chose to step aside or died.

      J’An and J’Al knew all of this, yet they remained on the platform, mopping up blood, acting as if this was an ordinary day. In a year the pair would stand against each other in the fierce tournament of the mukhayret, and fight as rivals with the rest of the would-be executioners. If one of them triumphed, his life would be changed forever and almost unlimited power would be his for the taking. But until then, they were determined to carry on as normal, as their father had taught them.

      Near the front of the crowd, Debbat Alg gazed at J’An and J’Al with calculating eyes. On the day of the mukhayret, the winner could choose any maid in Wadi to be his wife. More often than not, the new executioner selected a maid from the high family, to confirm his approval of the high lord, so it was likely that one of the brothers would choose her. She was trying to decide which she preferred the look of so that she could pick one to cheer for. J’An had a long, wide nose and thick lips which made many a maid’s knees tremble. J’Al was sleeker, his hair cut tight to complement the shape of his head, with narrow but piercing eyes. The inside of J’An’s right ear had been intricately tattooed, while J’Al wore a studded piece of wood through the flesh above his left eye. Both brothers were handsome and up to date with the latest fashions. It was going to be difficult to choose.

      Beside Debbat, Bastina also stared at J’An and J’Al, but sadly. She was thinking of all the heads the new executioner would lop off, all the lives he’d take. The Rum brothers had been kind to her over the years. She didn’t like to think of one of them with all that blood on his hands.

      And beside Bastina, Jebel stared too. But he wasn’t thinking of his brothers, the mukhayret tournament or even Debbat Alg. He only had thoughts for his father’s words, the horrible way he had been overlooked, and the dark cloud under which he must now live out the rest of his miserable, shameful years.

      TWO

      Jebel wandered the streets of Wadi as if stunned by lightning. It was the middle of summer, so most people retired to the shade as the sun slid towards its noon zenith. But Jebel took no notice of the heat. He shuffled along like a bound slave, his father’s insult ringing in his ears.

      He had never been especially close to Rashed Rum. Like all Um Aineh, his father prized strength above everything else. He was proud of his first two sons, the way they’d fought as children, the bloodied noses they’d endured without complaint, the times they’d taken a whipping without crying.

      Jebel had never been able to keep pace with J’An and J’Al. All his life he’d been thin, wiry, weak. He didn’t have the build or the fire in his heart to be a champion, so he was of little interest to Rashed Rum. His father and brothers had always been kind to him – they were a close-knit family and took all of their meals together – but casually mocking at the same time. They loved Jebel, but made it clear in a dozen minor, unintentional ways every day that they didn’t consider him an equal.

      Jebel didn’t think his father had meant to offend him when he made his announcement. His youngest son probably never even crossed his mind. Most likely he assumed that Jebel was set on being a teacher or trader, so why would the boy care if his father praised his brothers and overlooked him?

      But that wasn’t the case. Jebel had always dreamt of becoming a warrior. He studied himself in the mirror every morning, hoping his body had grown overnight, that his muscles had thickened. Some boys came into their prime later than others. Jebel wanted to be strong like his brothers, to impress his father.

      Now that could never be. His father had shamed him in public and that stain would stay with him like the tattoo of the axe on his left shoulder, the sign that he was an executioner’s son. Jebel had thought he could go far with that tattoo, even given his slim build, as everyone had great respect for the executioner’s family, but no regiment would want him now. People didn’t forget an insult of this kind, not in Abu Aineh. How could you ask to join a regiment of warriors if your own father had made it clear in public that he didn’t consider you up to such a task?

      Jebel felt like crying, but didn’t. He had been five years old the last time he’d cried. He had woken from a nightmare, weeping and shaking, and moaned the name of the mother he’d never known, begging her spirit to come and comfort him. Rashed Rum overheard and solemnly told Jebel the next morning that if he ever wept again, he would be disowned and cast out. It was a promise, not a threat, and Jebel had fought off tears ever since.

      Jebel walked until he could deny his thirst no longer. Slumping by the side of a well, he drank deeply, rested a while, then made his sorry way home. He didn’t want to go back and wouldn’t have returned if he’d had anywhere else to go.

      He passed Bastina’s house on his way. This was one of her free afternoons, so she had come home after the executions to help with the housework. Servants of the high lord had to work almost as hard as slaves, and had nowhere near as much freedom as others in the city, but it was a position of great honour and they were guaranteed a place by their god of choice in the next world when they died.

      Bastina was out on the street, beating rugs, as Jebel went by. She stopped, laid down the rug, picked up a jug of water and handed it to him. He drank from it without thinking to thank her, then poured the remains over his head, shaking the water from his short dark curls. Bastina tugged softly at her nose ring while he was drinking, studying him seriously. He lacked his brothers’ good looks – his nose was thin and slightly crooked, his lips were thin, his cheeks were soft and light where they should be firm and dark – but Bastina found him passable nevertheless.

      “How long have you been walking?” she asked and Jebel shrugged. “You could get sunstroke, wandering around all day.”

      “Good,” Jebel snorted. “Maybe the sun will kill me if I walk long enough.”

      “I’m sorry,” Bastina said quietly.

      “Why?”

      “Your father should have mentioned you along with J’An and J’Al.”

      “He’s got more important things to think about than me.”

      “Fathers should treat their sons equally,” Bastina disagreed. “Even…”

      “Even if one’s a thin, no-good rat?” Jebel said stiffly.

      “Don’t,” Bastina whispered, dropping her gaze.

      “Don’t what?” Jebel challenged her.

      “Don’t hurt me just to make yourself feel better.”

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