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 honor, 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.”
Jebel’s anger faded. He didn’t say sorry, but he touched her nose ring. “New?”
“Three days.” Bastina grimaced. “It hurt when it was pierced. I’m not looking forward to the next one.”
“It’s nice,” Jebel said. As Bastina smiled, he added, “But not as nice as Debbat’s new earring.”
“Of course not,” Bastina said sullenly. “I can’t afford the same rings or clothes as a high maid.”
“That’s a pity,” said Jebel, thinking about Debbat’s tight blouses. Then he recalled his father’s speech and sighed. “What am I going to do, Bas? Everybody will laugh at me. How can I face my friends, feeling like a worm? I…”
He stopped, dismayed that he’d revealed his true feelings. “Never mind,” he grunted, pushing past Bastina.
“You could talk to your father,” Bastina said softly.
Jebel paused and looked back. “What?”
“Tell him how he hurt you. Explain your feelings. Maybe you can—”
“Are you mad?” Jebel burst out. “Tell him he made a mistake? He’d whip me till I dropped! It’s bad enough as it is—I’ll end up a damn teacher or judge. But if I whine like a girl, he’ll send me off to do women’s work.”
“I was only trying to help,” Bastina said.
“How can an ugly little troll like you help?” Jebel sneered.
“At least I’m not a runt!” Bastina shouted, and instantly regretted it.
Jebel’s lips trembled. For a moment he thought about strangling Bastina—he’d be executed if he did, and all his worries would be behind him—but then he came to his senses and he slumped to the ground.
“I’m ruined, Bas,” Jebel groaned. “I can’t live like this. Every day I’ll be reminded of what my father said, the way he disgraced me. I dreamt of proving myself in the regiments, of maybe even serving the high lord, but no one will want me now.”
Tears welled up in Bastina’s eyes. She crouched beside Jebel and took his hand. “You can’t think like that. A warrior’s life isn’t for everyone. You have to make the best of what you have.”
Jebel didn’t hear her. He was thinking. “Maybe I’ll enter the mukhayret,” he muttered. “I can’t win, but if I made it past the first few rounds…”
“No,” Bastina said, squeezing his hand. “You can’t compete against the likes of J’An and J’Al. People would mock you. It would make things worse.”
“I might surprise them,” Jebel persisted. “Maybe make it to the last eight. If I did, my father would be proud of me.”
Bastina shook her head. “Only the strongest enter the mukhayret. People will sneer and make fun of you if you put yourself forward as a genuine contender.”
“Not if I made it to the last eight,” Jebel said stubbornly.
“But you wouldn’t!” Bastina lost her temper with her foolish friend. “You’d be crushed in the first round, humiliated in front of the whole city. You’re not a warrior, Jebel, and even Sabbah Eid couldn’t turn you into…”
Jebel’s head shot up, and Bastina winced. She smiled shakily. “What I mean—”
“Sabbah Eid,” Jebel interrupted, his brown eyes lighting up.
“No,” Bastina groaned. “Don’t even think—”
“Sabbah Eid!” Jebel exclaimed, and leapt to his feet. “Bas, you’re wonderful!” He bent and kissed her forehead, then ran off before she could say anything else, leaving her to sit in the dust, cursing herself for the suicidal notion that she had inadvertently placed in Jebel’s dizzy head.
CHAPTER THREE
The high maid Debbat Alg was watering flowers in one of her father’s gardens. Debbat enjoyed gardening. It was her only pastime, apart from looking beautiful. Her servants did most of the hard work—sowing, seeding, digging—but Debbat often watered and pruned in the spring and summer evenings.
She was examining a cluster of pink roses near a wall, when somebody hissed overhead. Looking up, she was astonished to spot skinny Jebel Rum in a tree, grinning down at her like a cat.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Debbat shouted, taking a step back.
“Quiet!” Jebel pleaded. “I need to talk with you. I have a favor to ask.”
Debbat’s eyes narrowed. “You disappeared swiftly this morning,” she chuckled wickedly.
Jebel pretended he hadn’t heard. “I need your help.”
“With what?” Debbat snorted. “Getting down out of that tree?”
“No. I want to quest, but I need permission. Your father—”
“Wait a minute,” Debbat interrupted. “You want to quest?”
“Yes.”
“Quest where? For what?”
Jebel paused for effect, then said, “To Tubaygat, to petition Sabbah Eid.”
Debbat’s jaw dropped. “You’re mad!” she squealed.
“I’
m going to become the new executioner,” Jebel said. “I can’t win the mukhayret as I am, so I’m going to quest. I’ll work my way north to Tubaygat, ask Sabbah Eid to give me inhuman strength and make me invincible, then return. Nobody can stop me winning then.”
“Indeed not,” Debbat said mockingly. “Nobody could stop you becoming high lord either, if you had a mind to.”
“But I don’t,” Jebel said. “I’ll swear to that if your father will hear my request. That’s one of the reasons I don’t want to ask my own father, so there can be no trouble between our families.”
“The other reason being he wouldn’t let you go.” Debbat laughed. “It’s been a hundred years since anybody completed a quest to Tubaygat. Dozens of our finest warriors have died trying, or returned defeated and shamed. What makes you think you’ll fare any better?”
“I’ve nothing to lose,” Jebel said softly. “I’m shamed anyway if I stay.”
Debbat started to dismiss him. He was a silly boy and he was wasting her time. But then she saw his look of glum determination and stopped. She was sure he’d fail, but in the unlikely event that he did return triumphant, he would be the most revered man in Abu Aineh. He would become the executioner and claim her as his wife. Her mother had taught her never to offend those you might one day be at the mercy of.
“What makes you think my father will hear your request?” she asked.
“You’re his favorite daughter,” Jebel said. “He’ll listen if you enter a plea on my behalf.”
“Why should I? I’d have to vouch for you. I’d be discredited if you failed.”
“No,” Jebel said. “I’ll quest in your name. If I die, you’ll be honored. If I fail and survive, I give my word that I’ll never come back.”
Debbat was excited. No one had ever quested in her name. Her friends would be jealous when they found out, even if the quester was only pathetic Jebel Rum.
“Very well,” Debbat said. “I’ll ask him. I’ll wait until he’s eaten—he’s always in a good mood then. Return tonight and bring your slave.”
“What slave?” Jebel frowned.
Debbat gave him a withering look. “You can’t face Sabbah Eid without a slave, or have you forgotten? Maybe I—”
“Of course,” Jebel interrupted. “I’ll sort that out, then return… when? Eight of the clock?”
“Make it nine.” Debbat turned back to her roses.
Jebel hung in the tree a few more moments, watching Debbat’s bare shoulders and the curve of her neck. He let himself dream of a future where he won the mukhayret, claimed Debbat Alg, and became executioner. Then he shook his head and slid down the tree. He had to find a slave, but it wouldn’t be easy. To complete his quest, he would need to kill the person who came with him. He had no idea how he could convince a man to let himself be sacrificed by Jebel to the fire god, Sabbah Eid.
CHAPTER FOUR
Fruth was a town for slaves in the northeast of Wadi, separated from the rest of the city by a tall, thick fence. The town had been built to cut down on running costs, which had been crippling the lords and ladies of Wadi. In the past, slaves lived with their owners, who had to feed and clothe them. But as the slaves bred and the conquering Um Aineh added more to their stock every year, it reached a point where the um Wadi could not afford to support them all. More than one rich family had ended up destituting itself in a desperate attempt to run a large household of hungry slaves.
Fruth was the answer, a town of cheap, poorly built houses where the slaves could live when they were not hard at work. Some slaves were required by their masters and mistresses at all times and so were kept close at hand, but most were only of use in normal working hours. At the end of each shift, those slaves were sent back to Fruth, where they enjoyed a certain degree of freedom.
Every family in Wadi supplied small amounts of food and drink to Fruth by way of a tax, and the slaves were left to fight among themselves to decide how these provisions were distributed. The strong thrived and were of more use to their masters, since they were healthy and relatively content. The weak… well, the nations of Makhras were better off without them, and such slaves could be easily replaced. Abu Rashrasha and Abu Kheshabah were broken, defeated countries, and regiments were regularly sent there on slaving raids for fresh supplies.
Fruth was always crowded in the evening as the bulk of the workers made their way home. The narrow streets were packed tight with slaves drinking, eating, dancing, praying, arguing, fighting. Hordes of dirty children ran wild. Emaciated, exhausted women washed clothes by the wells and hung them up to dry from ropes overhead. Men with cracked hands and creaking backs chewed tobacco and sipped weak wine. Skinned animals roasted on spits.
When Jebel entered Fruth, the guards at the gate paid him no attention. Many um Wadi slipped into Fruth at night with a few silver swagah in their pockets, to go in search of girls and other entertainment.
Jebel had been to Fruth on school trips, but only during the day, when it was quieter. He was disgusted by the press of filthy bodies, the noise, the dirt, the stench. Each street had a large shared toilet pit. Every few minutes slaves lifted their dresses or dropped their trousers and squatted over a pit in plain view of all passersby. To Jebel, they were worse than animals.
Jebel spent half an hour stumbling through the jostling streets, his nerves shredding with the passing minutes. Everything had happened too quickly. He hadn’t had time to think through all the problems of undertaking a quest. Now that he considered it, he began to realize the true extent of the challenge.
I must be mad, he thought. Even grown men think twice—several times!—before questing to Tubaygat. I’ll need a slave, swagah, clothes, weapons…. It’s impossible! I can’t do it!
He 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 color 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 traveled 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 tempers. 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.