Читать книгу The Thin Executioner - Даррен Шэн, Darren Shan - Страница 12

The palace of the high lord was centuries old, although many new buildings had been added to it during that time. In one of the palace’s older, smaller rooms, Wadi Alg (all high lords took the name of the city) was digesting a delicious meal and studying a scrawny boy who stood trembling by the doorway. By his side his daughter Debbat was playing with her father’s hair and muttering in his ear.

“Imagine the glory it would bring to Wadi. It’s been a hundred years since Abu Aineh could last boast of a successful Tubaygat quester, and more than four hundred since an um Wadi had the honour.”

“True,” Wadi Alg nodded. “But this boy doesn’t look like he’ll break the barren run. He’s thin, daughter. I’ve seen more muscles on a frog.”

Debbat stifled a laugh, then slapped her father playfully. “You mustn’t say such things. Jebel might not look like much, but he’s Rashed Rum’s son and he plans to quest to Tubaygat. He deserves respect.”

“I apologise,” the high lord grinned, then glanced at his wife for advice.

“The boy’s a sorry example of an um Wadi,” Danafah Alg sneered. “But he is the executioner’s son. If we dismiss him, Rashed Rum might feel insulted. We should let him quest.”

“But he’s so…puny,” the high lord protested. “We’d be sending him to certain death.”

“At least he would die with honour,” Danafah said. “If he remains, what sort of a man will he become — a trader or teacher? That’s no life for an executioner’s son. Rashed Rum will thank us for this. The boy has been an embarrassment since birth. With our help, he can redeem himself and die for the glory of Wadi.”

“And if he returns in a couple of months, having made it no further than Shihat or the walls of Abu Judayda?” the high lord asked.

“Then his father can execute him and he’ll soon be forgotten,” the high lady replied calmly.

Wadi Alg wavered. He wasn’t sure that Rashed Rum would thank him for sending one of his sons to his death, even if the boy was a runt. But if he rejected the request, Jebel would be humiliated, which in many ways was even worse.

“Very well,” Wadi Alg muttered. “Bring the boy forward.”

Jebel advanced hesitantly. He couldn’t believe what he was doing. This morning he had been thinking only of kissing Debbat Alg. Now here he stood, facing the high lord, asking for permission to go on a quest which would almost surely result in his death.

Tel Hesani walked close behind Jebel, head bowed, no fear in his heart. He had accepted his fate and would go wherever it led him.

Jebel stopped opposite the high lord. Placing his trembling hands together, he said, “Thank you for welcoming me into your home, my lord.” His voice didn’t shake, and for that he silently gave thanks to the god of iron, Aiehn Asad.

“It’s a pleasure,” Wadi Alg said. “My daughter has often spoken highly of you. When I heard that you were here, I thought you had come to ask for her hand.”

Debbat’s eyes flared. Her father pretended to cough, so he could cover his mouth and hide his smirk. He knew his daughter’s game — she cared nothing for this boy and only wanted him to die questing in her name. By claiming she had an interest in the thin youth, he had taken her down a peg or two.

Jebel’s gaze slid incredulously to Debbat. His spirits soared at the thought that she might be in love with him, and his confidence flourished.

“My quest comes before all else, my lord. If I succeed, and Sabbah Eid blesses me, I’ll return and enter the mukhayret. If the day goes my way, I will be free to choose my wife and then…” He stopped short of saying he’d choose Debbat.

“Truly these are the words of a great lover,” Wadi Alg murmured, and had to fake another cough. “Is this your slave?” he asked once he’d recovered.

“It is,” Jebel said. “His name is Tel Hesani. I ask that he and his family be signed over to my ownership.”

The high lord frowned. “I know that name. Where have I…?” His wife leant over and whispered in his ear. Wadi Alg’s expression darkened. “I sense the hand of J’An Nasrim at work. Has he put you up to this?”

“No, my lord. The decision to quest was mine alone.”

“But did J’An Nasrim–”

“My lord,” Jebel interrupted. “How I know the slave and why I chose him is of no interest to anyone. He is fit for sacrifice. What else matters?”

Wadi Alg blinked, then smiled. “Well said,” he commended Jebel. “I know several enemies of J’An Nasrim who will be livid when they hear of this, but you are right — a quester is free to choose any slave in Abu Aineh.

“Very well.” The high lord leant forward. “If I grant you permission to quest, do you swear not to challenge my authority upon your return? If successful, will you settle for the post of executioner?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s settled.” The high lord clicked his fingers at a servant. “Feed the fire in the hall of quests and prepare the brand.”

A short while later, Jebel was standing inside the fabled hall of quests. Only the high lord, his most trusted servants and questers ever set foot here. Jebel had heard many tales of the hall, that it was a vast cavern lined with human skulls, guarded by a monstrous hound. But in fact the hall was a cramped, dark cellar, with a thin chimney rising from the centre above a small fire.

Wadi Alg moved closer to the fire, where two men were working on a pair of bellows. They were the only four people in the room — Tel Hesani waited outside with Debbat. The fire was kept burning at all times, but usually it was a dim glow. It was only fanned to life when it was needed to heat a branding iron.

“Don’t let its appearance deceive you,” the high lord said. “This is a holy room. That fire was originally ignited with an ember taken from Sabbah Eid’s den in Tubaygat. It’s a godly flame which we have kept alive these many centuries. If you swear to quest, you swear it to Sabbah Eid himself. If you are to change your mind, change it now before you give your word to a god.”

“I’m not going to change my mind,” Jebel said, although he wished that he could.

“So be it.” The head of a small branding iron had been rammed into the heart of the fire. Wadi Alg took hold of the handle. “Come here.” When the boy was standing beside him, Wadi Alg said, “State your name.”

“Jebel Rum.”

“Do you swear to quest to Tubaygat and petition Sabbah Eid?”

“I so swear.”

“Do you swear to abide by the laws of the quest?”

“I so swear.”

“Do you swear to give your life if necessary, and to have it held without value by all Um Aineh if you return unsuccessfully?”

“I so swear.”

“Then I grant you permission to quest.”

The high lord picked up the brand. The head glowed white-hot. Without any warning he grabbed Jebel’s right wrist, then drove the head of the brand into the flesh of Jebel’s forearm. Jebel had expected the pain, but even so he couldn’t help gasping and pulling away from the burning heat. Wadi Alg held Jebel firmly, only releasing him when the stench of burning flesh tickled the inside of his nostrils.

Jebel fell away from the high lord, clutching his arm to his chest, squeezing the flesh above the mark left by the brand, trying to cut off the pain. It was far worse than he’d anticipated.

“Show me your arm.” Wadi Alg examined the brand. It was an ugly red colour, but the lines were solid — a coiled, fiery cobra. “While you live, this will be your proudest mark,” the high lord said and he sounded almost envious. “Very few have the courage to quest to Tubaygat. Even if you fail, you can be proud of the choice you have made. All who see this brand will know you are a true um Wadi, and your family will boast of you from this day forward.”

Jebel took comfort in the high lord’s words. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he wiped sweat from his forehead. “Thank you for making it a clean brand, my lord,” he croaked. If the mark had come out smudged, he would have had to be branded again.

“I’ve had lots of practice,” Wadi Alg laughed, then slapped Jebel’s back and guided him to the door. “Come, let us prepare for your departure. You must leave Wadi immediately. Your quest starts now, Jebel Rum!”