Читать книгу The Thin Executioner - Даррен Шэн, Darren Shan - Страница 9

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.”

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 ear-ring.”

“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 which she had inadvertently placed in Jebel’s dizzy head.