“So,” J’An said when they were settled, “how can I be of help?”
Jebel wasn’t sure how to start. After a short silence, he blurted out, “I’m going on a quest.”
J’An squinted. “You’re a little on the young side but old enough, I guess. You want me to share a few travel tips with you?”
“No. The quest is… it’s not straightforward…. I mean… oh, I’m going to Tubaygat!” Jebel cried. “I want to petition Sabbah Eid.”
J’An Nasrim blinked. A few seconds later, he blinked again. “Well,” he said, scratching the tattoo of a woman on his left arm. “Tubaygat… I can’t help you with that. Never been farther north than Disi, and that was by boat. Dangerous country, Abu Saga.”
“I know,” Jebel said. “But that’s not what I wanted to ask you about. I’m stuck already. I need a slave, but I’ve no idea how to get one.”
J’An frowned. “Can’t your father help?”
“He doesn’t know,” Jebel whispered.
J’An’s frown deepened, then cleared. “Of course. I heard about Rashed’s announcement. Early retirement so his sons might compete for the honor of replacing him. But the way I heard it, he only spoke of his eldest boys.”
“Word of my humiliation has even made it to Fruth,” Jebel snarled.
“Never underestimate those who serve,” J’An said. “Slaves here often know of city intrigues hours before anybody else.”
J’An leaned back, thoughtfully rubbing a tattooed ear. He was an especially dark-skinned man, but his eyes were bright blue, evidence that one of his ancestors had come from a foreign land.
“You’ll find Sabbah Eid and ask him to make you invincible and strong,” J’An said. “Then you’ll come back, win the mukhayret and earn the respect of your father. Is that the sum of it?”
“Pretty much,” Jebel said uneasily.
“A fool’s quest,” snorted J’An.
“I’m no fool,” Jebel protested. “I have to win back my good name. My father disgraced me, and I want to be able to walk with pride again.”
“And if you die on the quest?” J’An asked.
Jebel shrugged. “At least I’ll die as a proud um Wadi.”
J’An shook his head. “I normally never tell another man his business, but…” He scowled. “No. I won’t this time either. I think you’re mad, but on your head be it. You’re old enough to waste your life if you wish. I don’t have the right to stop you, so tell me how I can help.”
“I need a slave,” Jebel said once more. “I think I can get the permission of the high lord to quest, but I have no one to sacrifice. The trouble is, I’ve no idea—”
“—how to convince a slave to travel with you.” J’An Nasrim nodded. “That’s one of the problems with questing to Tubaygat. I’m sure you’re not the first to struggle with it. Of course, it doesn’t have to be a slave. Have you any close friends who would go with you and lay down their lives on your behalf?”
“No.”
“Then a slave it must be. You know nothing of the world, so you need someone who has traveled and fought, a man of experience and honor, who won’t swear to serve you faithfully then slice your throat open once he’s safely out of Abu Aineh. You plan to quest via Abu Nekhele?”
“I 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 favorite, 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 traveled 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 Tel’s 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 colored rope hanging from the crossbeam.
“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 color, and paintings hung in many places. There was a round table in the center, 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 gr
owling.
“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 leaned 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 asked Jebel. “To bend men to your will?”
“I just want to be the new executioner,” Jebel growled, not liking the slave’s tone. If Tel Hesani had spoken to him like this anywhere else, Jebel would have had him whipped. But J’An Nasrim regarded this slave as a friend, and Jebel had to respect that while in the trader’s company.
“Jebel has been shamed,” J’An said. “He quests to redeem his honor.”
“Then I wish you luck,” Tel Hesani said, putting his hands together.
“He’ll need more than luck,” J’An snorted. “The road to Tubaygat is lined with hardships. Virtually all questers die on the way or return defeated.”
“I don’t understand,” Tel Hesani said. “Surely you just sail up the as-Sudat to the base of the al-Meata and climb from there?”
“That wouldn’t be much of a quest,” J’An laughed. “Questers are forbidden the use of any river. They must quest on foot.”
Tel Hesani smiled wryly. “Your people are cruel but inventive.”
“How dare you!” Jebel shouted, unable to restrain himself any longer. “You’ve insulted the Um Aineh! I’ll have you executed!” He tried to get up, but J’An laid a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down.
“You must learn to control your temper,” J’An said lightly.
“But he insulted us!”
“Only a mild insult. And he has a point.”
“He’s a slave!”
“Yes. But this is his home. We are guests here. He has the right to voice his opinion in this room. Our laws allow for those few privileges at least.”
“But he’s a slave,” Jebel said again. “He has no rights.”
“In my view he does,” J’An said, and there was steel in his tone now. “As your elder, I expect you to bow to me on this.”
Jebel stared sullenly at the older man, then dropped his gaze and placed the palm of his left hand on his forehead. “I beg pardon,” he muttered.
“Granted,” J’An said, then faced Tel Hesani again. “We’re more inventive than you think. It’s not enough for the quester to make his way to Tubaygat. To petition Sabbah Eid, he must make a human sacrifice. Sometimes a friend will travel with him to offer himself up—the victims are guaranteed an afterlife and a prominent place by the side of their favored god. But usually it’s a slave.”
“I see.” Tel Hesani broke off another chunk of bread, smeared it in drippings, then watched the fat drip off the end of the bread. When the last drop had fallen, he brought the bread to his mouth and bit into it. He spoke while chewing. “Your cur has no friends, so he wants to buy a faithful hound of his own.”
Jebel’s breath caught in his throat. His first impulse was to grab a weapon and strike the slave dead. But there were no knives on the table. As he wildly considered his options—perhaps he could use a pig’s hoof as a makeshift club—J’An said, “Your mouth will get you into trouble one day.”
Tel Hesani smiled without humor. He rubbed a long, fresh welt on his back. “I’ve lived with trouble a long time now.”
J’An winced. “I tried again to buy you back,” he said. “I met an Um Saga trader in the al-Breira who was on his way to Wadi. I paid him to bid for you, hoping your master wouldn’t realize I was behind it. But his offer was rejected. He was told that all the swagah in Abu Aineh couldn’t buy you.”
“Your enemies hate with a vengeance,” Tel Hesani noted drily.
“They have nothing better to do than hate and scheme,” J’An said bitterly. The table shook from where he gripped it. “You’ll die on the docks soon. Your wife and daughters will be sold to the vilest bordello-keepers in Wadi, and your son will perish down the mines in the al-Tawla.”
“A cheerless prediction,” Tel Hesani said softly. “But true.” He glanced at his family. They were staring at him expressionlessly.
“I can’t help you,” J’An said. “But I can save Murasa and your children.”
Tel Hesani’s round eyes narrowed. “You think that you can buy them?”
“Better. I can free them.”
Tel Hesani said nothing for a moment, a frown creasing his features. Finally he whispered, “How?”
“A quester to Tubaygat can’t be denied the services of his chosen slave,” J’An said. “If you agree to travel with Jebel, there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it. Your wife and children will also be assigned to him. Jebel will grant them their freedom before you leave.”
Murasa gasped and clutched her husband’s arm. He said nothing, only set his steady gaze on Jebel Rum and observed the boy silently.
Jebel thought about what J’An Nasrim had said and how the slave had called him a cur. Then he looked at J’An and said, “I don’t agree to this.”
“You have no choice,” J’An responded. “You need a slave. I’m offering you Tel Hesani. This is the price of his obedience.”
“If I set his family free, what’s to stop him killing me in my sleep and slipping away to join them?” Jebel asked.
“I give you my word that he won’t,” J’An growled.
Jebel lowered his head and placed his palm on his forehead. “I beg pardon, but your word isn’t enough.
I don’t know this slave. I don’t like him. I certainly can’t trust him.”
“Listen to me, you young—” J’An roared.
“No,” Tel Hesani cut in. “The boy is right. He must have a real assurance.”
J’An let out a shaky breath. “Then you accept?” he asked Tel Hesani.
The slave shrugged. “I have already accepted death. Whether I die on the docks or on a crazy quest is of no consequence. But if I can save my family by going on the quest, then obviously I shall.”
J’An faced Jebel again. “What assurance will satisfy you?”
“I don’t know,” Jebel said, head in a spin.
“How about holding his family here for a year?” suggested J’An.
“And if Tel Hesani kills me tomorrow, then waits a year to link up with them?”
J’An cursed. “I’m sorry I ever offered to help. Let’s just forget about—”
“Wait,” Murasa said, speaking out of turn. All of the men looked at her in surprise. She was studying Jebel. Her eyes were bright green and her cheeks were fiery red. But her lips were pale as ice when she spoke. “Um Aineh have spirit witches, crones who can communicate with the dead, yes?”
“Yes,” Jebel said.
“If you accept my husband as your slave and turn us over to your father, he can hold us captive for a year. If you return, you’ll free us. If not, an Um Aineh witch will try to contact your spirit. If my husband served you well, you’ll tell her and we shall be freed. If, on the other hand, my husband betrayed you, or if the witch cannot make contact, we will go to the executioner’s block.”
“No!” Tel Hesani snapped. “Those witches are fakes. They can’t speak to the dead. They say what the person paying them wants to hear. J’An Nasrim’s enemies will bribe them to say I killed the boy.”
“Perhaps,” Murasa agreed. “But at least this way we have hope. Also, if the worst comes to the worst, I would rather die cleanly, with my children by my side, than perish slowly and in degrading conditions, cut off from them, alone.”