“God doesn’t need my help,” Tel Hesani chuckled.
Jebel shook his head scornfully, then pointed at a snake wrapped around an um Khathib woman’s neck. “Maybe that’s your father!”
“Perhaps,” Tel Hesani smiled. “Or maybe it’s one of your relatives.”
“Take care, slave,” Jebel growled, and bit into another chunk of the fishy meat. But when Tel Hesani wasn’t looking, he cast a worried eye over the snake, just in case there were any family resemblances.
Jebel and Tel Hesani spent the next day resting in Khathib. The mosquitoes were less active there, and the um Khathib had oils and plant extracts to deter the flying pests. They smeared Jebel and Tel Hesani with the lotions and taught them how to search for replacements. They also showed them how to capture a rare type of fish. It left a foul taste in your mouth when you ate it, but the juices protected you from diseases spread by the mosquitoes.
Moharrag was interested in Jebel’s quest and asked lots of questions. The um Khathib believed that a great spirit lived in the al-Meata. They thought it took the form of a giant snake. Some of their ancestors had made quests north to ask the spirit for help. According to the legends, one of the successful questers founded this village and taught his people how to live in peace with the wildlife.
Jebel didn’t tell Moharrag that Tel Hesani was his slave or that he would be sacrificed in the bowels of Tubaygat. While it seemed perfectly natural to Jebel to own a slave and slice his throat open in pursuit of invincibility, he didn’t think the um Khathib would see it that way.
Tel Hesani could have happily spent a month in Khathib, learning about these strange people and their beliefs. But the quest took precedence. They’d lost time early in the trek, and if they didn’t make it up, they would run into difficulties farther along the path. The slave didn’t want to give the Wadi boy the opportunity to say that they had failed because the Um Kheshabah spent too long dawdling with snake-worshippers.
So the following morning Tel Hesani led Jebel out of Khathib. Moharrag offered to guide them. Jebel would have accepted the offer, but Tel Hesani knew that one of Moharrag’s wives was due to give birth soon. It was the custom of the um Khathib for the father to cut a newborn’s umbilical cord. It would have been unfair to ask Moharrag to miss his child’s birth, so Tel Hesani said they would find the path by themselves. Moharrag blessed them and prayed to his ancestors to grant the pair safe passage. Then he waved them on their way, and soon they were lost to the reeds and weeds of the swamp again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The rest of the slog through the swamp passed without incident. Snakes continued to snap at the pair’s ankles, but none penetrated the thick leather of their boots or attacked while they were asleep. They didn’t stumble into an alligator’s den or fall into quicksand. Even the mosquitoes weren’t much of a problem, repulsed by the lotions of the um Khathib. Jebel’s eyelids healed and his hives subsided, though he was left with pockmarks on his face and arms. He didn’t mind—they made him appear more rugged, which would be attractive to the girls back home.
Jebel had hated the swamp to begin with, but now he started to see flashes of beauty as they cut through the reeds—the petals of a rare flower, the formations eels made underwater, the cries of birds at dawn and sunset. It was peaceful here.
He slept deeply at night, dreaming of Debbat Alg and how he’d kiss her when he returned, triumphant. He wondered what he would wear at their wedding and if he should choose J’Al or J’An to stand by him in the ceremony. He thought it would be nice to involve Bastina in some way, perhaps as a flower girl. Maybe that would stop her crying for once!
In a more relaxed and happy mood, Jebel paid attention now when Tel Hesani told him about different types of snakes and lizards, and even asked questions. One morning, watching Tel Hesani set a fire, he told the slave to teach him how to make one, and spent an hour learning the intricacies of building and maintaining a fire in the middle of a swamp.
“Did your father never teach you how to set a fire?” asked Tel Hesani.
“My father’s an executioner,” Jebel said archly. “He has no time for work such as this.”
“Still,” Tel Hesani murmured, “there are certain skills a father passes on to his sons—how to build a fire, how to whistle, how to shave…. These are pleasures for any man, be he the poorest or richest alive.”
“Maybe for the Um Kheshabah,” sniffed Jebel.
“If I may be so bold, master,” Tel Hesani said with genuine interest. “How much time did you spend with your father?”
“Quite a lot,” Jebel said. “He thought it was important for a father to spend time with his sons. He stayed in with us most nights, even though he would have been welcome in any house in Wadi.”
“You were close?” Tel Hesani pressed.
“Yes.” Jebel shrugged. “Obviously J’Al and J’An were closer because he was prouder of them, and they worked with him, but he never made me feel as if I was unwanted. He wrestled with me, the same as with the others, so that I could learn some of the rules of combat from him. He didn’t train with me as much as he did with my brothers, but he never excluded me.”
“Did he read to you or help you with schoolwork?”
Jebel leaned forward to adjust a twig on the fire. “That’s not how Um Aineh live. A man must behave like a warrior with his sons. Women educate their children. Men have more important matters to attend to.”
“Then did your mother read to—”
“She died when I was born,” Jebel cut in.
“My regrets.” Tel Hesani paused, then decided to carry on. This was the first time he’d had a real conversation with Jebel, and he was curious to know more about the boy who would take a knife to his throat some months further down the line. “Did your father have a second wife?”
“She died before my mother,” Jebel said. “He wasn’t lucky with the women he chose. The gods wanted him to focus on his work without distractions.”
“Some distractions are more welcome than others,” Tel Hesani chuckled. “Did you have a nurse?”
“Of course,” Jebel snorted. “You don’t think my father fed and cleaned up after me, do you?” His features softened as he thought back. “I was raised by Bas’s mother—Bas was the girl who was waiting outside the high lord’s palace for us.”
“I remember. Were you fond of her?”
“Of Bas?” Jebel cried.
“Her mother.”
“Oh.” He chuckled. “Yes. I don’t see her much now, but I loved her when I was a child. I liked Bas too,” he admitted grudgingly. “When she wasn’t crying.”
“Do you miss them?” Tel Hesani asked.
Jebel nodded slowly.
“And your father and brothers?”
“Yes,” Jebel croaked. “I sometimes wish that I hadn’t come on this quest, that I’d accepted my shame and…” He coughed, then stamped out the fire and glared at the slave, angry at having his feelings stirred up in this manner. “Let’s have no more talk of what we left behind. Those people don’t matter to us anymore.”
Tel Hesani bowed obediently and doused the last few embers of the fire, then set off after his scowling young master, who was striding swiftly ahead of him, not checking for quicksand or hidden pools.
Finally they cleared the swamp. After a long bath in a hot-spring pool, they marched steadily west, following the base of the hills that became part of the Great Wall of the al-Attieg farther north. It was cold here, and not just because autumn had come to Abu Nekhele. Winds from the al-Attieg peaks meant it was always colder here than farther south. Jebel had meant to discard his trousers and put his tunic back on once they were clear of the swamp, but he was glad now of the warmth the trousers afforded.
There were lots of villages, home to goatherders and mountain farmers. Jebel and Tel Hesani avoided them. Although the powerful nations of Abu Nekhele and Abu Aineh were currently at peace, old resentments were as strong as ever. While an Um Aineh could in theory
pass freely through here, many of the villagers would be only too happy to string up a stray um Wadi pup.
Also they were antislavery. Abu Nekhele had only recently banned slavery outright, but the people in the east had never kept slaves. Tel Hesani covered the dog’s skull tattoo on his left cheek with paste he’d bought in Wadi, but it wouldn’t mask the brand at close quarters.
Jebel’s fears about the slave resurfaced. If J’An Nasrim had miscalculated and Tel Hesani thought more of his freedom than his family, this was where he’d turn. It would be a simple matter for him to betray Jebel here and be declared a free man by the liberal Um Nekhele.
Jebel’s insides tensed every time they were studied from a distance by curious locals. He expected Tel Hesani to cry foul. But the slave kept his head up, walked by Jebel’s side as if the two were equals, and waved politely at the villagers.
A few days later they arrived at Hassah, on the eastern side of the as-Sudat. Hassah was an ancient settlement, but it had been rebuilt thirty years ago. The old buildings were torn down, and a new town sprouted out of their ashes. The wide streets now ran straight, either parallel to the river or at ninety-degree angles to it, and were cleaned every day. Scores of jetties had been constructed along the riverbanks. Taverns, inns, and bordellos existed in the usual high numbers, but the town didn’t have a seedy feel to it.
Jebel and Tel Hesani arrived in the afternoon. Finding a respectable inn, they ate and retired to bed. The next morning they explored. They strolled to the docks and watched cargo being loaded and offloaded from the steady flow of boats coming down the river from Abu Saga or preparing to head north. Soldiers kept a close watch on the goods. There was none of the thievery found in most ports.
The pair walked through the customs depot, where ranks of officials sat making entries in ledgers, collecting tariffs, issuing passes. Jebel shivered when he saw them at work—this was the sort of life he’d seemed destined for—and hurried on.
They browsed around one of Hassah’s many markets, to purchase warm clothes for the winter. As they wove through the neatly laid-out stalls, Jebel remembered the advice of Masters Bush and Blair—to wait until they reached Jedir to buy goods—and mentioned it to Tel Hesani.
“I see no need to postpone our purchase,” Tel Hesani replied. “We have more than enough swagah. We face a long march to Jedir, and I have heard that the nights are cold in the siq. It would be foolish not to stock up now.”
“But what if the Um Siq kill us for our new clothes?” Jebel asked.
Tel Hesani smiled. “The Um Siq are the wealthiest people in Makhras. They control all passage through the al-Attieg gorge, collecting taxes from boats sailing in both directions. They can easily afford to buy their own clothes.”
Jebel meant to ask more about the Um Siq, and also about the siq itself—he knew little about it, except that it was the only crack in the mountains of the al-Attieg through which a man could easily pass on foot. But at that moment he spotted a familiar sight in an adjoining square—an executioner’s platform. It was smaller than the one in Wadi, but somebody was on it, polishing the head of an axe.
“Come on!” Jebel barked at Tel Hesani, forgetting that he was supposed to behave as if the slave was free. “I want to see how they chop off heads here. I bet their executioner isn’t a patch on my father.”
A small crowd had gathered around the platform, but Jebel was able to push to the front. He’d assumed the man polishing the axe was an assistant, but up close he saw that it was the executioner himself. He was unlike any Jebel had heard of, a burly, unkempt man with lewd tattoos, dirty hair, and filthy hands. There was dried blood under his fingernails, and he didn’t wear any mask or cap.
“We shouldn’t be here,” Tel Hesani whispered, glancing uneasily at the other people in the crowd.
“Quiet,” Jebel hushed him, frowning at the executioner. The man looked like a sailor or farmer. An executioner should be sober and mannerly, but the brute on the platform was drinking from a mug of ale and exchanging jokes with some women.
A man in chains was led to the platform by two soldiers. The crowd muttered when they saw the prisoner, but nobody mocked or jeered him.
When the prisoner was standing on the platform, one of the soldiers addressed the crowd. “The accused, Moghar Nassara, has been found guilty of murder and sentenced to death. Does anyone want to make a final plea on his behalf?” When nobody answered, the soldier nodded. “Sentence to be carried out.”
The prisoner was bent over the block, and his head was locked in place with a wooden bar. The soldiers retreated but didn’t step down off the platform. The executioner spat into his hands, grabbed his axe, and hacked at the prisoner’s neck. It was an unclean cut—he hit the man’s head, not his neck, resulting in a scream of pain. The executioner swung again, hastily, and although he hit the neck this time, there wasn’t enough power in the blow to sever it.
The prisoner shrieked and cursed the executioner, along with those in the crowd. Blood seeped from the cuts to his head and neck. The executioner paused to wipe it away so he could mark his spot, then swung for a third time. He again failed to cut through the neck and had to hack at it a fourth time, then a fifth, until it was hanging by a thin strip of flesh. At that point he put his axe aside, grabbed the head, and pulled it off. When the head came free, he dumped it in a basket, then turned and wiped his hands on a towel stained with crusted blood.
Jebel was stunned. He had never seen anything like this. His father was one of the most skilled beheaders ever. No one operated as cleanly and capably as Wadi’s master of the axe. But even judged by the standards of lesser executioners, this man had no style. He’d struck clumsily, painfully, disgracefully. He had wallowed in the victim’s blood and treated him like an animal.
While Jebel gaped, a soldier handed the executioner five silver swagah. There were low boos from some of the people in the crowd. The executioner spat in their direction, then left with the women he had been joking with earlier. The soldiers moved the prisoner’s body and head to the side of the platform, then nudged them over onto a cart. The crowd dispersed, heads low, and within a minute Jebel and Tel Hesani stood alone.
“Was the execution to your satisfaction, my lord?” Tel Hesani asked wryly.
“It was an abomination!” Jebel shouted, then lowered his voice when a woman mopping blood shot him a sharp look. “These people are monsters. That brute shouldn’t be allowed near an axe. I could have done a better job myself.”
“Perhaps,” Tel Hesani murmured. “Although they say it’s no easy thing to cut off another man’s head. Your people have perfected the art, but other executioners are not so skilled. Also, they have less chance to practice here.”
“What are you talking about?” Jebel asked.
“They have less necks to cut.” Tel Hesani took the boy’s elbow and led him away. He spoke softly as they walked, explaining the ways of Abu Nekhele law.
“Very few Um Nekhele are executed. Only serious crimes, such as murder, are punishable by death. Those who steal or maim are sent to jail.”
“What’s a jail?” Jebel asked.
“You know the cells where prisoners are held before execution? Well, in Abu Nekhele they have many of those. But people aren’t just held there prior to being executed. If they’re found guilty of a lesser crime—such as theft—they’re held for months or years, then released.”
Jebel stared at his slave in disbelief. “You mean if an Um Nekhele steals, he stays in a cell for a while, then is returned to the streets to steal again?”
“Yes, although most do not. Jail isn’t a pleasant place. Inmates are confined to tiny cells and fed disgusting food. The punishment has a grave effect on many who suffer it, and most prisoners lead honest lives when they’re released.”
“And if they don’t?” Jebel huffed. “If they come out and thieve again?”
“They’re sent back to jail. If they do it four or five times, they’ll eventually be executed, but such c
ases are rare.”
“That’s madness,” Jebel said. “Why waste money on scum? If a man steals, he is without honor. It’s better for his family if he’s killed.”
“Perhaps,” said Tel Hesani cautiously. “But some people believe that only their gods have the right to take a person’s life, except in extreme circumstances. And others, such as the Um Kheshabah, believe that all life is sacred and that jail is the worst punishment any human should inflict on another.”
Jebel’s features hardened. “I knew of the cowardice of the Um Kheshabah, but I was unaware of the Um Nekhele’s weakness. Peace has softened and twisted them. First they ban slavery. Now this. Perhaps we should start a new war and beat them back into their senses.”
Tel Hesani regarded Jebel disdainfully. He wanted to ask who had made this boy such an authority on the law. He would have liked to tell Jebel that executioners were regarded with contempt here, that they were usually recruited from drunks found in the foulest taverns.
But if he did that, Jebel might start shouting, demanding justice, decrying the flaws of the Um Nekhele. If the locals found out that Tel Hesani was Jebel’s slave, they’d turn on his arrogant young master, and while the Um Kheshabah had no love for the boy, he didn’t want to see him end up as the victim of a lynch mob.
So Tel Hesani held his tongue and let Jebel rage quietly. When the boy calmed down, the slave led him to a different market, where he picked out the rest of the clothes and goods they’d need for the next leg of their travels—the trek through the hostile, mysterious realm of Abu Siq.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
From Hassah they picked their way northeast, keeping close to the banks of the as-Sudat. The land was barren and flat—flaky stone with occasional outcrops of weeds. It was easy to cross but cold at night. Jebel was glad of the extra clothes that Tel Hesani had insisted on buying.
They saw many boats sailing in both directions. Sometimes those on board waved at the pair, but more often they stared suspiciously. It was rare to see people on this side of the river. The stony land was officially part of Abu Nekhele, but most people considered it an extension of Abu Siq, and thus out of bounds.