“Fifteen!” someone yelled.

“Twenty!”

The burly beheader smiled. “Maybe. But I don’t want to push myself. A man should know when it is time to step aside.”

There was a collective gasp. Jebel couldn’t believe what he was hearing. There had been no talk of this at home, at least not in his presence.

“I’ve always hoped that one of my sons might follow in my footsteps,” Rashed Rum went on. “J’An and J’Al are fine boys, two of the best in Wadi, and either would make a fine executioner.”

As people nodded, Jebel felt like he was about to be sick. He knew he was the frail one in the family, not as worthy as his brothers, but to be snubbed by their father in public was a shame beyond that of a thousand whippings. He sneaked a quick look at Debbat Alg. She was fully focused on Rashed Rum, but he knew she would recall this later and mock him. All of his friends would.

“J’An will be a man in a year,” Rashed Rum said, “and J’Al two years after that. If I carry on, they won’t be able to fight for the chance to take my place.” Only teenage boys could compete for the post of executioner. “I asked the high lord for his blessing last night, and he granted it. So I’m serving a year’s notice. On this day in twelve months, I’ll swing my axe for the final time. The winner of the mukhayret will then take my place as Wadi’s executioner.”

That was the end of Rashed Rum’s speech. He withdrew, leaving the crowd to feverishly debate the announcement. Runners were swiftly dispatched to spread the news. Everyone in Wadi would know of it by sunset.

The post of executioner was prized above all others. The god of iron, Aiehn Asad, had personally chosen the first-ever executioner of Wadi hundreds of years ago, and every official beheader since then had stood second only to the high lord in the city, viewed by the masses as an ambassador of the gods. An executioner was guaranteed a place by his god’s side in the afterlife, and as long as he didn’t break any laws, nobody could replace him until he chose to step aside or died.