The Prince of Cats

by D E Olesen

  “It better be worth more than the usual dog shit,” Hashim snorted, throwing his cards on the table with disdain as he lost the round.

  “Several bolts of silk,” Jawad said in a gamble.

  The brute’s demeanour changed entirely. “Now there’s a good boy,” he grinned. “Come, sit next to me, Jawad.” He pushed one of his companions off the chair next to him. Swallowing, the young thief took the seat. Hashim’s meaty hand fell heavy down on Jawad’s neck. “You’ve never brought me silk before. Weapons, cotton, incense, spices, but never this. You’ve outdone yourself.”

  “Best of all, it’s sitting in a warehouse barely guarded,” Jawad continued.

  “Let me guess, the only guard is a naked jinni, hotter than the desert and begging to be fucked,” Hashim laughed. His companions joined in.

  “Close. They don’t want to draw attention. It arrives tomorrow at the warehouse, being moved the day after. Kept in a plain looking crate to throw off suspicion,” Jawad explained. “Each bolt is worth at least a hundred birds.”

  “And my grandma is the Kabir’s courtesan,” one of the rogues grinned.

  “Shut up, you fuckwit,” Hashim sneered at his henchman. The table immediately became quiet. His hand on Jawad’s neck began a kneading motion. “How many bolts?”

  “Three.” Jawad swallowed again, trying not to dwell on the unpleasant sensation of Hashim’s hand or the stench of his body so close.

  “How many guards?”

  “One inside the warehouse. Another four patrol the district. They appear about once every hour,” Jawad explained. “Plenty of time to force the doors open, get the crate, and be gone.”

  “What’s the warehouse?”

  “The one belonging to al-Badawi by the meat market,” Jawad elaborated.

  Hashim’s expression darkened. “I have a bone to pick with that fat silk beard.” His hand squeezed uncomfortably tight on Jawad’s neck.

  “Here’s your chance. The crate will be easy to find, too. It looks ordinary from the outside, but it’s been marked with a black cross on top, so those in the know can distinguish it. People like us,” Jawad added.

  “How did a degenerate pickpocket like you come across this?” The question came from Rifat; gaunt and scarred, Jawad knew he had a gift with knives and liked to make use of it. Even now, questioning Jawad, Rifat was twirling a dagger between his fingers.

  “Dock workers like to drink and talk,” Jawad explained. “The crate got damaged during transport, revealing its content. That’s why they’ve had to disguise and move it until it gets sold.”

  Hashim leaned back in his seat, finally withdrawing his hand. “Tomorrow night, you say.”

  “An easy job,” Jawad repeated with confidence. “You just need to handle the guard inside.”

  The leader of the gang broke into a smile. “Looks like we got ourselves a mark, my brothers.” His companions grinned back at him.

  “What’s my pay?” Jawad asked. It was always good to appear greedy; people never questioned the motivations of a greedy thief.

  “The fuck are you talking about, pay,” Rifat snorted. “You’re not one of the Teeth.” He gave a scornful smile, revealing how the lower part of his right fang had been painted black, making it look broken and jagged.

  “Now, now, dear Jawad deserves something for telling us what his ear heard,” Hashim declared magnanimously, winking at the small thief. He reached out to rub Jawad’s earlobe between his fingers. “Such a good, useful ear.” Jawad was acutely aware that silence on his part was worth gold in this moment. “For something of this value, why, thirty silver would be reasonable.” Hashim’s fingers began to pull down, threatening to tear his ear. “If the silk is there. You wouldn’t be mistaken, Jawad, would you?”

  “Never.” Jawad wished he had sounded more confident. It did not escape his attention that some of the thieves from the other tables had gotten up and moved behind him, keeping him surrounded.

  Hashim brought his face close to Jawad, like a dog sniffing a dead animal. Jawad kept himself facing straight ahead without moving a muscle. “After all, you’re not one of us. Just a street rat,” Hashim mumbled. His wet breath landed on Jawad’s ear.

  “He’s a cocky fellow, chief,” Rifat pointed out. In an instant, he had a knife pointed at Jawad’s groin. “Let’s cut him down to size.”

  “Maybe we should initiate him,” someone suggested. “The real way. Break his teeth.” The cutthroats pressed against Jawad from every side, keeping him trapped.

  “Quiet,” Hashim barked. He released his hold on Jawad and patted the young rogue on the head affectionately. “Don’t you worry that pretty little head. If the mark is solid, Hashim will pay you in full.”

  “Thanks,” Jawad mumbled, not daring to say anything else.

  “But if you’ve whetted my appetite and there’s nothing tasty at the end of this mark,” Hashim continued, his voice turning into a growl, “there won’t be anywhere for you to hide. The Teeth got people watching every street, every ship, every cart in this gods-forsaken city. You hear?”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t care what rat hole you scurry down, we’ll find you.” Hashim pushed his nails into Jawad’s ear, talking directly into it. “I’ll make you drink lamp oil and piss on fire.”

  “Understood.”

  Hashim patted his cheek. “Good boy. Now fuck off!” He pushed Jawad off the chair. Turning around, Jawad crawled as much as walked, moving frantically to escape the tavern while their laughter rang in his ears.

  Once outside, the thief got on his feet and hurried away.

  ~~~~

  Jawad walked through the night. He stayed in the southern medinas, navigating their labyrinthine streets until he reached a small building; unlike all others, it was built standing free. It was in fact little more than an empty space with an altar inside, serving as a shrine to Elat. Her epithets were many, including the Lady of Luck, the Courtesan of Fortune, the Shadow’s Friend, and so forth. Her true name, fitting to her elusive nature, was hidden, and so she was simply referred to as Elat, the goddess.

  While thieves were not known for their religious zeal, they all showed her respect; it could be the difference between a patrol walking closer or further away, between the moon illuminating you or hiding behind a cloud, and countless other little coincidences that decided whether your fate was wealth or poverty.

  A roughly hewn statue of a woman stood upon the altar, which was otherwise bare; priests from the temple came by daily to collect offerings. Jawad left what little remained of Salah’s coin purse on the altar and bowed forward to kiss the foot of the statue. Straightening up, he winked at the statue. “So far, so good.” Outside, the horizon was slowly brightening.

  3. Alchemy

  It was early morning when Jawad returned to the estate of al-Badawi. The doorkeeper recognised him and allowed him entrance with a grunt.

  “Much obliged.” With the lush surroundings behind its walls, the mansion was a haven in this city of dust, and Jawad took his time to admire the landscape while strolling up to the main building.

  His leisurely manner was in stark contrast to the response created by his appearance. The mamluks guarding the entrance exchanged looks of disbelief. One pointed his spear at Jawad while the other rushed off. The thief willingly entered the reception hall to wait.

  Salah arrived first. “You bastard!”

  “It’s good to see a friendly face,” Jawad told Salah. “Your guards lack hospitality.” He sent an indignant look at the spear tip pointed at him.

  “Where did you go?” The question was asked in the most menacing manner possible, and just for emphasis, Salah seized Jawad by the collar. Jawad would have sighed if his breathing were not obstructed; it would have been nice to be threatened in a way that did not ruin his tunic.

  “I listened to the whispers on the wind,” Jawad replied, struggling to get the words out. “Once I no longer had your heavy breathing in my ear, I was able to hear a lot
.”

  “I don’t know what schemes you’ve made, but coming back here was a mistake –”

  The arrival of his master interrupted Salah. “The thief is back?” al-Badawi asked.

  “Yes, effendim.” Salah scowled at Jawad.

  “As I was about to say, I return with joyous news.”

  The merchant looked at him coldly. “I doubt that. Salah was right. I should never have trusted a villain and a scoundrel.”

  “But effendi, I know where the Prince will strike tonight.” With satisfaction, Jawad noticed the reaction of his audience. Along with silence befalling the hall, Salah finally released his grip on Jawad’s collar. “You need only prepare the trap, and you can kill the Prince once he appears.”

  “A likely story.” Contempt overflowed in Salah’s voice.

  “Where?” asked al-Badawi.

  “Your warehouse by the slave market, effendi.”

  “No obvious reason he should steal from there,” the merchant said with a frown. “It holds nothing of particular value.”

  “The Prince has his reasons, no doubt,” Jawad remarked.

  “Or this is a ploy,” Salah interjected. “This flea-infested louse makes us guard one place while his comrades rob another!”

  “Effendi, I would never dare,” Jawad protested.

  “I’ll set a trap with the mamluks,” Salah suggested. “We’ll drag the rascal with us. If the so-called Prince does not show, I’ll use my sword on our little thief here instead.”

  “And if he escapes from you again?” asked his master, sending looks of disdain at both Salah and Jawad. “Better to have him locked up here.”

  “Is it really necessary to be so distrustful?” Jawad’s remark was ignored.

  “If the mamluks are with me, the house will be lightly guarded,” Salah pointed out. “We may be locking the jackal inside with the sheep.”

  Al-Badawi was silent for a moment. “Wait here,” he commanded and left the salāmlik.

  Jawad looked at Salah, who wielded a scowl as if it were a deadly weapon. “Heard any good poetry lately, Salah?”

  “Keeping count, mongrel. Every little thing is another lash against your back.”

  Al-Badawi returned with a cup in his hand. “This is something my grandfather taught me. You will drink this.”

  “While I am thirsty beyond belief, I’d prefer to know what it is,” Jawad said hesitantly.

  The merchant’s smile was cruel. “It is a poison that brings a slow death.”

  Warning bells resounded in Jawad’s mind. His eyes darted around the room, looking for his escape. The two guards held spears; if he ran between them, they would have trouble striking him. The problem was Salah with his short sword, standing closer to the entrance. “Your grandfather sounds like an aggressive negotiator,” Jawad remarked, trying to buy time. He could run deeper into the palace and trust that his knowledge gained so far would let him find an exit, but that seemed doubtful.

  “It was how he kept a man loyal. Drink it,” al-Badawi commanded, holding out the cup. “If what you say is true and we catch the Prince tonight in your trap, I will give you the antidote. If you are lying to me… I am told it is an excruciating death.”

  Jawad weighed his options. With a silent prayer to Elat, he put on a smile. “I am true to my word.” He reached out to take the goblet from al-Badawi’s hand. “To your health, effendi,” he toasted and emptied the cup. He pulled a face. “Bitter. Some honey wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Excellent. After tonight, either you or the Prince will die, and I have one less nuisance to worry about.” Retaining his cruel expression, al-Badawi left.

  Jawad turned towards Salah, cup still in hand. “Could I be allowed a chamber and a bed? I am quite exhausted, and if we are to be busy tonight, I should require some sleep.”

  With an uncomfortable look at the chalice in Jawad’s hand, Salah nodded slowly. “Sure. There are plenty of empty beds in the servants’ quarters. Choose any you like.”

  “Much obliged.” Jawad disappeared down the corridor indicated by Salah.

  Once out of sight, Jawad abandoned pretence of seeking sleep. Instead, he immediately pushed a finger down his own throat until his stomach emptied its contents. A small puddle of digested fruit lay in clear liquid on the ground, giving Jawad little assurance. He needed to go elsewhere. Wiping his mouth, he got up and hurried away. Soon after, he slipped outside the palace; the feat was made easy by entire areas being uninhabited. Jawad noted in passing that although fabulously wealthy, al-Badawi’s riches must have become less fabulous in recent years, or he would have been able to afford slaves and servants to fill the entirety of his estate.

  Once in the surrounding orchard, Jawad looked closer at the enclosing walls. They were tall and smooth, making them difficult to scale without any kind of equipment; furthermore, there was an open stretch of land between the walls and any neighbouring buildings to further hinder break-ins. Luckily for Jawad, he was not trying to get in, but get out, and the orchard had trees growing close to the wall; nobody ever considered precautions to keep thieves from escaping once inside. With a bit of climbing and one careful jump, he moved from branch to stonework. One moment later, Jawad had lowered himself down from the wall and could disappear into the city.

  ~~~~

  Walking with haste, Jawad moved through Alcázar; once more, his direction was south. His steps lacked his usual grace; while he was accustomed to being up at night due to his nocturnal activities, lack of sleep was catching up to him. Not to mention, his heart was beating fast at the mere thought of the chalice that al-Badawi had made him drink; although the morning was cold, he could feel beads of sweat forming on his brow.

  The streets became crowded with the hojon entering from the slums beyond the southern walls to work as day labourers on the docks and districts; Jawad stumbled into some of them on more than one occasion, drawing angry yells and shoves along the way.

  The stream of people lessened once he left the main streets. In staggered fashion, Jawad returned to the poorer parts of Alcázar until he finally stopped outside an unassuming building. Its only distinguishing feature was a sign painted on the door. To the knowledgeable, it was the symbols for gold and silver mashed together, also known as truesilver; to the common man, it was simply a mark explaining that here lived an alchemist.

  “Ishak!” Jawad banged repeatedly on the door. “Ishak, are you home?”

  He had to continue for a while until the door finally creaked open. An old man stood behind it; he had a long, white beard and wore robes typical of scholars and the learned, but the rest of his appearance gainsaid this impression. His hair was unkempt and missing patches all over his skull. His face was full of spots reminiscent of burn marks, hinting at experiments gone awry. The most striking feature was his eyes, which stared wildly at Jawad. “What do you want, you chicken snake?” he exclaimed. His tattered robes were of little value, but he wore a necklace with a golden pendant showing the same symbol as upon his door with a value of around thirty-five silver coins.

  “Ishak, I need your help. Let me in.”

  The alchemist snorted as he stood aside to let Jawad enter. “Of course you need my help. That’s the only reason anyone would be at my door.”

  “I need you to tell me if I have been poisoned,” Jawad explained. He was in a room that seemed to have several functions. Various reagents and scorch marks suggested the workshop of an alchemist. A bed, bandages, and small tools spoke of a sickroom for treating the ill. Jawad was not sure what to make of the skull on the table.

  Ishak closed the door and turned his stare on his guest. “What would give you such an outlandish idea?”

  “Someone made me drink poison.”

  Narrowing his eyes in contemplation, Ishak nodded slowly. “So that’s one symptom. How do you feel? Hot, out of breath, heart beating fast?”

  “Yes,” Jawad confirmed, “though I all but ran getting here.”

  “Lie down, you goat feather,” Ishak
reproached him, gesturing to a sofa. “Take deep, slow breaths and relax.”

  “Relax, of course. Who wouldn’t be relaxed while at death’s door,” Jawad muttered, but he did as told. His new position allowed him to stare up on the ceiling, which was covered in strange symbols. Staring at them, Jawad felt his mind slowly drift, and his vision became blurry.

  Meanwhile, Ishak began rummaging through the many shelves lining his walls, containing countless ingredients, herbs, powders, and a hoard of other items. “This will help,” he proclaimed, mixing a few different liquids together.

  “Is that an antidote?” Faint hope appeared in Jawad’s voice, and he blinked to dispel the fog from his mind, looking away from the symbols above him.

  “Yes,” Ishak confirmed before he downed the entire concoction in one gulp. “For my hangover. You lie back and be still,” Ishak demanded. “Imagine you’re already dead.”

  “With this for a healer, I will be,” Jawad complained, taking deep breaths and slowly exhaling.

  “Such nerve,” Ishak grumbled. “I’ll have you know, I have been a physician to kings and kabirs, you melon biter.” He held out a small plate in front of Jawad’s mouth. “Spit.”

  Having obtained his sample, Ishak returned to his work desk and poured a few drops of a murky fluid onto the saliva. He stared at it intently as nothing at all happened. With a few scowls and growls, Ishak returned to Jawad. The thief lay with eyes closed, reposing, until his caretaker jammed two fingers against his face, prying his eyes open. “What’s that for?” it burst from Jawad in complaint; involuntarily, his eyes tried to blink in protest against this abuse.

  “Pupils are normal,” Ishak muttered, placing his ear against the thief’s chest, listening to his heart. “So is heartbeat.” He stood up straight and used an odd, viscous liquid from a nearby bowl to draw a symbol upon Jawad’s chest. “How long ago did you make the brilliant decision to swallow poison?”

  “At least two hours,” Jawad speculated. “It was a long walk to get here.”