the cloak to himself, but he knew that any Um Aineh who showed pity to a slave would be scorned by his people back home.

Khubtha caught Jebel’s eye as the boy settled back and pulled the cloak tighter around himself. The Um Rashrasha stared longingly at the cloak, and there was an unvoiced plea in his expression. Jebel flushed, feeling an unavoidable pang of guilt, but he said nothing, only turned his head away so that he would not have to look at the slave. He would rather offend Khubtha than the gods.

When darkness fell, Tel Hesani rose and went to study the street. “I don’t see anyone,” he reported back. “I think it’s safe to leave.”

“Let’s not be hasty,” Khubtha wheezed. “We should stay here for a few nights. They’ll expect us to run. If we wait, we might outfox them.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Tel Hesani said.

“They’d have searched this house by now if they were going to,” Khubtha argued. “Nobody will look for us here. We’re safe.”

“What can we eat?” asked Jebel.

“We don’t have to eat,” Khubtha said. “This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone a few days without food. We can wait for a storm, then slip away.”

“That’s a good point,” Tel Hesani reflected. “The sky’s clear. If we leave now, we’ll be exposed. Good thinking, Khubtha.”

The Um Rashrasha chuckled. “You have lots of time to think when you’re shoveling snow. Get some sleep. I’ll take the first watch in case anyone comes sniffing around.”

Jebel didn’t think he could sleep, what with the cold and threat of recapture. But he saw Tel Hesani drop off after a few minutes, and as he watched the slow, steady rise and fall of the slave’s chest, he felt his own eyelids drooping, and he joined the Um Kheshabah in the land of dreams soon after.

Jebel was roughly kicked awake. A foot connected with his jaw and sent his head snapping back. As he jolted out of sleep, somebody pinned him to the floor. He cried for help, but then he saw the Um Kheshabah, arms bound, surrounded by three men. His heart sank, and he looked for Khubtha, wondering why he hadn’t warned them. That question was soon answered when he spotted Khubtha standing nearby, wrapped in a rug, smiling.

“Traitor!” Jebel screamed.

Tel Hesani stopped struggling and stared at Khubtha. “You betrayed us?”

“I had to,” said Khubtha. He didn’t sound ashamed.

“Why?” Tel Hesani asked as soldiers jerked him to his feet. “They won’t free you. Um Saga never free slaves. And they execute all who try to escape.”

“No,” Khubtha said. “The Um Saga waive the death penalty if an escaped slave turns in another. They’ll take me off the streets and put me to work in a factory. I’ll live longer. Maybe I’ll find a woman, have children….” He shrugged.

“But they’ll kill us!” Jebel roared.

“So what?” sneered Khubtha. “You’d have done the same thing if you’d been a bit smarter. I feel bad about Tel Hesani — he’s an honorable man — but you deserve all this and more. You Um Aineh only think of yourselves. Did you offer to share your warm clothes with us?” He ripped Jebel’s cloak away and draped it around Tel Hesani’s shoulders. The Um Kheshabah didn’t react. He was staring at the ground, making his peace with God.

“All right,” one of the soldiers said, binding Jebel’s hands. “Take them away.”

“Where?” Jebel asked sickly.

“The Uneishu,” Khubtha answered with grim satisfaction. “That’s the Disi court. It’s always open for business. Justice works quickly and surely here in Abu Saga. You’ll be tried, found guilty, and executed within the next hour.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Uneishu was a large circular building with a domed roof. It had been home to the city’s governers for more than two hundred years. The Um Saga were a violent, abrasive race. Internal conflict was rife, and the Uneishu stayed open all hours, its judges working in rotation to sort through the dozens of cases that were brought before them in the space of an average day.

The Uneishu was divided into a series of rooms of various sizes. Jebel and Tel Hesani were marched to a large room in the middle of the building, where slave-related matters were dealt with.

The captured fugitives were placed with a group of ten slaves. Their owners were engaged in an argument in front of a podium. An elderly judge was listening with a bored expression. A handful of traders and slavers stood or sat nearby, following the case. Often, if an argument couldn’t be settled, the slaves were sold off and the profits split between the two parties. The gathered gentlemen were in search of a bargain.

Jebel felt numb. He couldn’t believe that he was about to die. And executed too — what an irony! He had fled from home to chase his dream of becoming executioner, and now he was going to die by the blade of an axe.

Tel Hesani was praying. He asked God to forgive him any outstanding sins. He prayed for the safety of his family and even put in a good word for Jebel, though the boy wasn’t high on his list of priorities. He hoped, most of all, that it would be a quick, painless death.

As Tel Hesani prayed, a strange-looking pair slipped into the room and sidled up behind the slavers and traders. Bush and Blair had heard about the capture and had come to see Jebel and Tel Hesani beheaded.

“Let us pray most fervently for a rusty blade,” Blair muttered.

“And a feeble executioner who needs five or six chops to finish the job,” Bush snarled, then frowned. “The three-strikes rule doesn’t apply here, does it?”

“No,” Blair said. “Their executioners are not as skilled as the Um Aineh’s, so they let them hack away as many times as they need.”

“Good,” said Bush sourly. They were both bitter, not just at the loss of their slave but because, as Jebel’s owners, they had been forced to pay towards his recapture.

The case before the judge was decided — a split ruling, slaves to be auctioned off immediately. The slavers and traders bid on the group, and the highest bidder made off with them, delighted with his purchase.

Jebel and Tel Hesani were led up next.

“Escaped slaves,” the soldier with them grunted.

“Did they injure anyone?” the judge asked.

“Broke one of my men’s legs.”

“Does he want them tortured?” Death was the punishment for escape, but any other crimes committed by the slaves had to be dealt with first.

“No,” the soldier said. Actually, the man with the broken leg did wish to see them suffer, but he wasn’t present, and the arresting officer couldn’t care less — he only wanted to get home to bed.

“Have the costs of pursuit and capture been settled?” asked the judge.

“Yes.” The soldier nodded at Bush and Blair. “The younger slave belonged to them. They covered half. I know who the other one belonged to, and he’s good for the money. I’ll collect it tomorrow.”

The judge fixed his gaze on Jebel and Tel Hesani. “We don’t tolerate your kind here,” he growled. “Slaves are property, and we expect property to remain where we place it. You will be taken to the room adjacent to this and hanged until dead.”

Hanged?” Bush yelped. When the judge glared at him, Bush bowed obediently. “Forgive the interruption, your worship, but we were told that their heads were to be chopped off.”

“Our executioner hurt his back riding,” the judge explained. “Hanging is easier, and the result’s the same, so—”

“Again, I beg your forgiveness,” Bush cut in, “but we were charged the cost of a professional executioner. If you’re just going to stick ropes around their necks, I imagine the sums involved will be considerably less.”

“Very well,” said the judge irritably. “You can arrange a partial refund with my clerk. I’ll leave you to argue

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