Tel Hesani shrugged. “I will have escorted you to Tubaygat and let you kill me, upholding my part of the bargain. What happens after that is your concern. Come,” the slave said, rolling up the map. “Let’s sort out our supplies and move on. If we can cover a few miles before midday, it will be a good start.”
Jebel nodded wearily. He felt that the world was larger and more threatening than he’d ever imagined. But he didn’t want to look weak in front of Tel Hesani, so he splashed water over his face, then followed his slave back into the market to buy the goods which they would need to help them navigate the first leg of their journey into the perilous unknown.
EIGHT
The journey north through Abu Aineh was a joy. As a quester to Tubaygat, Jebel was fêted in every village and town that he passed through. The reaction from the um Surout — those who lived by the banks of the river — was the same everywhere. Men and women greeted Jebel politely, but with no great interest at first. Their gaze flickered to his arms, searching for the tattoos which would tell what family he was from, if he had a job and so on. They’d note the small W on his neck with no surprise — um Wadi were plentiful here. But eyebrows were raised when they saw the tattoo of the axe on his left shoulder, then shot up even higher when they spotted the coiled serpent on his lower right arm.
As soon as people realised that Jebel was on a quest to Tubaygat, word spread like wildfire. Within minutes a crowd would form. Everyone wanted to offer him a bed or food, to touch his hand and earn good luck. If any thought it curious that such a skinny boy had undertaken so hazardous a quest, they kept their doubts to themselves. He was the Wadi executioner’s son and he bore the brand of a quester. He was due their unreserved respect and they afforded it him.
The praise and gifts of the river folk quickly went to Jebel’s head. He had been withdrawn and sullen when they left Wadi. Tel Hesani had taken control of the quest, organised their supplies, decided how far they marched each day, when they slept and ate. The slave never acted without Jebel’s permission, always careful to ask if “my young master” agreed. But he was clearly in charge and Jebel felt the way he did in school.
He was lonely too. Tel Hesani was a man of few words (at least around Jebel) and there was nobody else to talk with. Jebel missed his friends, his brothers, Debbat Alg, even the melancholy Bastina. The days were long and dull. They marched steadily, the scenery unchanging, stopping only to eat, rest and sleep. His mind wandered while they marched, but since he’d never been overly imaginative, he found it hard to amuse himself. He was also sore from sleeping on a rough mat. He had seriously started to think about abandoning the quest and throwing himself into the as-Surout.
But then came the villages and towns, the gasps, the admiration, the fine beds, clothes and food. Feasts were dedicated to him and vintage wines uncorked in his honour. After his first few glasses, he would regale his audience with fanciful tales of why he had undertaken the quest. If his listeners sensed the hollowness of his words, they never challenged him. Jebel soon started to believe his own stories and came to think that there was more to his character than he’d imagined in the past.
Girls also looked at Jebel in a new way. Wherever he stopped, he found scores of young women clad in their finest blouses and dresses, fussing over him, fighting among themselves to carry a tray to him or pour his wine. They smiled at Jebel all the time, fluttering their eyelashes, artfully pursing their lips.
The advances took Jebel by surprise initially. He blushed and kept his eyes low. But now he accepted the flirting and openly ogled the girls who paraded before him, choosing the prettiest and beckoning her forward, gracing her by letting her wait on him in front of her friends.
Jebel wasn’t sure what Tel Hesani got up to while he was being toasted by the locals and enjoying the company of their fairest maids. The slave would vanish from Jebel’s sight and thoughts once the first glass of wine was poured. In the morning, Tel Hesani would be waiting for him outside the hut where Jebel had spent the night. After a long, late breakfast and an extended series of farewells, they would take to the road again, often not until early afternoon, and make their leisurely way to the next settlement.
When Jebel occasionally wondered about Tel Hesani, he assumed that the Um Kheshabah was enjoying himself among the slaves and servants, basking in his master’s fame. One evening, in a small town, he discovered that wasn’t quite the case.
Jebel was sipping wine on a veranda overlooking the as-Surout. The high lord of the town had a collection of wines from all over Makhras, some from countries Jebel had never heard of. He’d been drinking more than usual and was feeling light-headed. A green-eyed, willowy maid had danced seductively for him earlier and topped up his glass more often than was necessary, breathing softly in his face as she leant over him with the bottle. He was thinking about the way she had looked at him, and her whispered promise to bring him more wine in his hut later, when he was alone.
It wouldn’t be polite to go to bed before nightfall, so Jebel remained seated and favoured the high lord with some of his wilder tales. But all the time his gaze was on the girl with the green eyes. He couldn’t wait for night. He wished he had the power to control the sun — he’d make it sink a lot faster if he could!
After another glass of wine, he excused himself and slipped down to the river to relieve himself. Once he was done admiring the ripples he had made, he turned to head back to the veranda, only to find Tel Hesani blocking his way.
“I trust the wine is to your satisfaction, master,” the slave said.
“Very much so.” Jebel belched and frowned at Tel Hesani. “I’m tired of those trousers. Replace them with a tunic. And make sure it covers your chest — it’s not proper for a slave to run around half-naked. You’re not working on the docks any longer, you know.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Tel Hesani smiled. “I thank you for your advice, but I prefer trousers. In my country, this is how men dress.”
“This isn’t your country,” Jebel snarled, “and that wasn’t advice — it was an order. I expect you to be wearing a tunic in the morning. If not, I’ll have you whipped.”
Tel Hesani’s smile didn’t falter. “My young master speaks clearly, for which I am grateful. I am glad that your senses are intact, despite all the wine you’ve been drinking. Perhaps you are sober enough to heed my warning and be saved.”
“What are you talking about?” Jebel growled. “How dare you presume to warn me. Forget about morning. I’ll have you whipped now, you son of a–”
“Be careful, sire,” Tel Hesani said, lips tightening. “These people know you as a noble quester. If I was whipped, I might cry out and tell them a different story of a sorry boy who wants to reclaim his lost honour.”
Jebel’s eyes flashed. “I won’t stand for such insolence. I’m going to have the flesh flayed from your back, you worthless piece of–”
“The girl who has been dancing for you is no maid,” Tel Hesani interrupted. “I have been speaking with the servants. They tell me she had a boyfriend. They were very close, but he left when she pressed him to marry her. If she wants to wed a different man later, she’ll have to take a test to prove her maidenhood, but it’s a test she will fail.”
Tel Hesani paused to make sure that had sunk in. Although Jebel’s eyes were swimming in their sockets, the slave could see that the boy was paying attention.
“It seems to me,” he continued, “that the girl is scheming to find a way out of her predicament. I think she plans to come to you in your hut tonight, then claim that you attacked her. If her accusation is accepted, she will still be considered a maid by law. You will be executed and she’ll be free to marry.”
Jebel croaked, “How do you know this?”
“I made enquiries,” Tel Hesani said, “as I have everywhere we’ve stopped. Such plots are not uncommon. You wouldn’t be the first young