The Prince of Cats

by D E Olesen

“Well,” Ishak considered, “either this poison works slower than any that I possess –” He interrupted himself. “Possess knowledge of, that is, or your drinking companion lied to you.”

  “I thought that might have been the case,” Jawad said with considerable relief. “I have never heard of a substance that would take more than a day to kill. But I needed to be sure.”

  “More than a day?”

  “That is what I was told.”

  “Even my slowest sleeping powders take effect within hours,” Ishak told him. “The only way to kill someone with poison over several days is by giving them a small dose regularly, letting it build up. If that’s the case here, the cure is simple.”

  “What is it?”

  “Next time someone offers you poison, you politely decline.”

  Jawad snorted. “Sage advice.”

  “Of course it is, you cat’s paw,” Ishak said as he turned to put his ingredients back to order. “I am a sage, thus everything I say is sage advice. If you want wise counsel, find a wise man.”

  Jawad stood up, stretching his neck. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Better yet,” Ishak told him, turning his head sharply to look over his shoulder, “keep some silver in my hand.”

  “I’m all out,” Jawad said with as much regret he could muster. “I’ll have to owe you.”

  “Donkey teeth!” Ishak bared his own specimens. “If I had time, I’d make you bathe in beetle milk for that. Luckily for you, the equinox is soon, and I have herbs to gather before the light wanes. You’ve wasted enough of my time,” he growled. “Out!” He brandished a sickle. “Don’t return unless you have coin or the intact shell of a blue saltwater clam!”

  Jawad left in haste.

  ~~~~

  Ishak’s abode was already in the south end of the city, but Jawad continued further until he reached the walls. There was a lone gate allowing passage in and out of Alcázar in this direction; its three brethren were all along the northern and eastern defences. To the west, the sea and cliffs acted as the main fortification, and the harbour provided the only needed access.

  Another thing distinguished this entry point; there was no toll for passing through, and subsequently it had far fewer guards. Jawad walked through, sending the bored sentinels a smile, which they did not reciprocate; being assigned this duty was a common punishment in the city guard for small offences, and the soldiers preferred to have as little to do with the hojon shuffling through the gate.

  Beyond the wall, Jawad found himself in the ragged collection of huts and sheds known as Almudaina. It was home to thousands of people that made an honest living as daylabourers and dockworkers inside Alcázar; it was also home to a good number of people making a dishonest living. Nearly all the members of the Black Teeth bore the branded cross on their wrist marking them as hojon, the derisive name for the downtrodden denizens of Almudaina.

  Rubbing his own brand, Jawad walked into the shantytown. He was keenly aware of the looks he drew, wearing a clean linen tunic and new sandals; to some, that would be sufficient temptation to try their luck.

  Keeping his wits about him, Jawad ventured deeper inside. In contrast to the sweet fragrances of al-Badawi’s palace, the stench of human filth, general rot, and disease along with unwashed bodies was palpable. The kindest thing to be said for Almudaina was that it had fewer rats than most other places; if any were spotted, they would be hunted and turned into a meal by the countless quick-footed children running around.

  Jawad stared at them, suddenly reminded of his brothers and himself; shaking the memory from his mind, he put a mask of cordiality on his face. “Ghulam,” he called out, gaining the attention of another man.

  “Jawad,” the other responded, and they clasped hands. Ghulam was short, dressed in clothes mended many times, and had hair cut uneven; although he did not seem to be starving, like any other in Almudaina he had a haggard look in his eyes that spoke of hunger. Naturally, the ever-present cross was on his wrist. He did not seem to possess a single item worth a copper coin.

  “How is business?”

  “I won’t complain.”

  “Good.” Jawad sent him a sly smile. “Heard anything about the Prince?”

  Ghulam laughed. “I thought you were the one with ears in all places, hearing things.”

  “My dear Ghulam, you are one of those ears.”

  “Well, this ear is deaf, in that case.”

  Jawad gave a slight nod. “Truth be told, I am more interested in the docks today.”

  “Coin will get you anything.” Ghulam gave a shrug.

  “I am strapped for the moment, but I’ll bring silver soon enough.”

  An expression ran across Ghulam’s face. “I don’t know if the boys will talk with only promises as payment.”

  “I’ve never failed to deliver yet.”

  “Yet,” Ghulam repeated. “If intentions were food, rats would grow fat in Almudaina.”

  “I need to do a mark to have coin,” Jawad explained, “but I won’t have a mark until I talk with the boys, will I.”

  Reluctantly, Ghulam waved for Jawad to follow. “Don’t make it a habit. You’ll find your welcome colder.”

  “Perish the thought.” Jawad entered Ghulam’s shed. As could be expected, it was a small, bare room containing only some hay to serve as bed and a few other rudimentary items such as a cracked pot and a mouldy blanket. Jawad did not spare anything a second glance, simply following Ghulam through the back door.

  While unassuming, the shed was one of the few gateways into the inner part of Almudaina. In some ways, it did not differentiate from the outer area; the buildings still looked derelict and constructed from little more than debris, and only people in extreme poverty could be found. The difference lay in the structure of this inner medina; it was designed to create winding streets with many dead ends and places suitable to ambush the unwary. Having few other means at their disposal, this carefully constructed chaos was the only weapon that the hojon had against intruders.

  With his usual familiarity, Jawad steered through the maze until he came upon a gathering of men passing the time playing dice. Bits of metal, pieces of string or fabric, and the occasional leather strip were the objects to be won or lost.

  “Well met,” Jawad called out to them. They were daylabourers seeking their luck on the docks each morning; as the hojon were not allowed inside the city during night, they would march down to the harbour each sunrise. The fortunate would be given work hauling cargo between ships and warehouses, yielding eight copper pieces for a day’s labour; the rest would loiter around the streets of Alcázar or return to Almudaina.

  “Jawad!” some of them replied in greeting, looking up from their game of dice as he approached. “What do you have for us?”

  “Nothing right now,” Jawad told them, remorse underpinning his voice. “I hope to change that with expedience, should you fine folk have something for me.”

  The men exchanged glances; while the vague promise of later payment did not sit well with them, their options were limited. “What do you want to know about?”

  “What news do you have about the Prince of Cats?”

  “Not much,” came the reply. “He’s not been active in a while.”

  “I heard he’s skipped town and gone to Labdah,” another claimed. “Looking for emeralds.”

  “That’s just a rumour,” a third man interjected.

  “Interesting,” Jawad said, scratching his cheek. “I’ve heard that he is planning to strike against the dye merchants of Alcázar. Tell me about any ships belonging to Dār al-Allawn,” he instructed them, “and what you know about the merchant al-Badawi.”

  4. The Blade and the Pearl

  It was late afternoon when Jawad exchanged grunts with the doorkeeper at al-Badawi’s palace. Heat lay upon the surroundings, and he hurried to reach the shade of the pillars guarding the entrance.

  The mamluks at the door sent him a few stares, but did nothing else; their instructions
were to keep the thief from leaving the palace, but they had not been told what to do if he tried to enter. Salah was another case. After being told of Jawad’s return, he stormed around the building for nearly half an hour, checking the inner rooms that contained any object of value; finally, he went to the servants’ quarters and found Jawad sleeping soundly on one of the cots.

  Staring at the thief with an indeterminable expression, the warrior finally decided to rouse Jawad from his sleep. “Where have you been?”

  “If I recall, I was searching the rooms of the Kabir’s palace when I stumbled upon – oh, you weren’t talking about my dream.”

  “Where have you been?” Salah reiterated with clenched jaw.

  “I have been prodded and poked by this mattress,” Jawad answered. “These beds are most uncomfortable. Every time I fell asleep, it lasted only briefly before I woke again.”

  “Of course, because alhajin like you is accustomed to silken beddings,” Salah snorted. “I know you left the palace.”

  “When sleep eluded me, I took a walk around the premises. When the heat was finally too much, I fled inside and gave sleep another attempt. This time I had success until you so cruelly yanked me from Eliun’s embrace.”

  “Don’t forget about tonight, thief,” Salah impressed upon him. “Any sign of treachery –”

  “I know. Your blade, my spleen. Really, dear Salah, there is no need. Your master’s poison is swishing around in my veins, remember? I am already on a leash.”

  To Jawad’s surprise, which he made sure to hide, Salah looked uncomfortable. “I don’t agree with everything my master does. If you want someone dead, you use steel, and you do it to his face.”

  “Good to know I can keep you from murdering me by turning my back to you,” Jawad remarked. “If you don’t mind? I should like a little more sleep before we head out. Close the door on your way, please.” Salah sneered and stomped away, leaving the door wide open. “Rude,” Jawad called out.

  ~~~~

  When evening came, Salah and a dozen mamluks lay in wait by a warehouse near the western docks, scattered around the area. Most of them wore anxious expressions, glancing at each other in silence, as none of them dared to speak. Salah sat concealed inside the building itself, keeping a firm eye on the gate with a resolute demeanour as he crouched to stay hidden. Next to him, Jawad sat leisurely with his back against a crate, playing with a knife he had somehow acquired.

  Salah stared at the blade in Jawad’s hands with disapproval. “This Prince better show, so I can kill him and be done with you.”

  The thief failed to stifle a yawn. “I’m sure they’ll be here soon. But if I fall asleep, do wake me up so I don’t miss the excitement.”

  “Sure,” Salah responded with derision in his voice. “You think I’ve never seen an unproven warrior trying to hide his nerves with this attitude?”

  “Whatever gave you that notion?” Jawad did not want to admit the notion was correct. It was hard to talk his way out of situations where only steel spoke, meaning he did his best to avoid any such confrontations. While his upbringing on the streets had involved plenty of scuffles, Jawad had usually been on the losing side.

  Salah gave him a condescending look. “You hold and play with that knife like it’s a toy, not a weapon. And why the mask?”

  Jawad touched the cloth that concealed his face. “Should any of our guests tonight escape, I don’t want them to know I was present. Once all this is over, I would like to be able to show my face in the southern medinas.”

  “That’s the thinking of a thief,” Salah informed him. “A warrior would be thinking how to keep anyone from escaping.”

  “I leave that part to you,” Jawad confided in him, spinning his knife around in his hands.

  ~~~~

  Two hours later, Jawad had given up playing and was simply staring into the darkness of the interior warehouse. He had been sorely tempted to begin rummaging around the various crates, but with Salah so close by, that had not been an option. “Elat, forgive me,” Jawad said exasperated. “All the times I complained about how boring it was to keep watch of a mark, I never knew. This is far worse. I can’t take it if this continues until morning. Consider me chastised, I beg of you!”

  “Be silent,” Salah grumbled. “If they don’t show, consider what will happen to you. Maybe you should be grateful that morning is far away.”

  In his head, Jawad ran through the different possible exits, as he had done when he first arrived some hours ago. Besides the main doors, there was a ladder built into the wall opposite the entrance, typical of these buildings. It led to a hatch that could only be opened from the inside, which in turn gave access to the roof and a ladder that ran down the outer wall. From there, Jawad was confident he could disappear deeper into the district and escape any punishment.

  While making his calculations, Jawad was considering his retort to Salah; his witticism was sadly lost as Salah reached out to grab hold of his arm. “Quiet,” he commanded, pre-empting Jawad. The reason for this soon became apparent; outside, an axe was hacking away. It was attacking the part of the gate where the hinges were bolted to the wood. It was crude and noisy, but effective; moments later, half the gate fell open. Four men entered the warehouse, expecting to subdue the lone guard inside, grab a crate, and be on their way again. Two of the thieves wielded bows, while the others had an assortment of blades and clubs.

  “Let go of your weapons, get down, and kiss the ground,” Hashim called out to the supposed guard. His eyes peered into the darkness. “Strike a light,” he told one of his compatriots. The robbers took a step further into the building, glancing around suspiciously. It was dawning on them that something was amiss.

  As one of them lighted a torch, Salah made his move. “Now!” he yelled, rushing forward to attack the thieves. Seven mamluks followed his lead from inside the warehouse, and five did the same from the outside, keeping the intruders trapped inside the building.

  Fierce fighting erupted as the Black Teeth used every underhanded method in existence. But this was not a clash with city guards, who put their own lives above catching criminals. These were mamluks, slaves raised to be soldiers since childhood, and they were well equipped. Hashim’s knife slid through Salah’s woollen surcoat, aiming to strike a mortal wound between his ribs, but it glanced off harmlessly against the chain shirt underneath. With a grim smile, Salah aimed a kick at his opponent’s unprotected groin, sending him flying backwards with a pained expression; although he belonged to neither mamluks nor Teeth, Salah knew how to fight as either.

  Keeping to the background, Jawad watched the spectacle while fidgeting with his mask. The thieves understood the odds, and rather than seeking to win, they were trying to fight scattered in the hopes of creating an opportunity to flee. Jawad watched with satisfaction as one of them went down; while he did not recognise the thief, it was someone in Hashim’s personal gang, which was sufficient justification for Jawad to celebrate.

  Suddenly, another made an attempt at freedom; running deeper into the warehouse, his unexpected choice of direction took the mamluks by surprise, and they failed to stop him.

  Jawad watched with an amused expression until he realised what the thief had guessed; there would be a ladder somewhere along the inner walls, leading to the roof.

  For a long moment, Jawad considered the possible outcomes; it was against his personal convictions to become involved in brawls and generally place himself at risk unless necessary. On the other hand, any survivors among the Teeth would be a loose end. With a curse aimed at Haktar and a prayer towards Elat, Jawad left his observational post atop a barrel of fennel seeds and sprinted after the fugitive.

  The other thief had spent his brief lead to locate the ladder and had already jumped up the first few steps. Jawad came at him, swinging his knife, but even in frenzied flight, his opponent kept his wits about him. As soon as Jawad came close enough, he received a well-aimed kick to knock him back; even worse, his cloth mask came loose,
revealing his face.

  He stared at the thief, who stared back; there could be no doubt now that tonight had been a trap and Jawad its maker. If the Black Teeth learned of this, Jawad would be a hunted man in all of Alcázar.

  Sneering, Jawad got on his feet and hurried up the ladder, pursuing his prey. The latter reached the hatch, undid it, and disappeared onto the roof. Jawad followed suit.

  He found the thief frantically looking for where the outer ladder might be; once Jawad appeared, he ceased his searching and turned to face his pursuer with a drawn dagger. “Come on, then!”

  Jawad became acutely aware that they were alone; he had relied on superiority of numbers for tonight’s skirmish. Now it all rested on Jawad’s ability with a blade. “Look, let’s talk about this.” He lowered his knife to seem less threatening.

  The other thief took this as an invitation. He withdrew a handful of sand from an inner pocket and threw it in Jawad’s face, making the latter stumble backwards, temporarily blinded.

  Desperate, Jawad waved his knife around, hoping to keep his opponent at bay; his hopes were dashed as he lost his footing and fell to the ground.

  Half blind, lying on his back and with a loose grip on his knife, Jawad knew he had made a fatal mistake. He had placed himself in a situation beyond his control and where none of his skills would avail him. He had gambled and lost.

  His musings were interrupted by a kick to his face, making him drop his knife and leaving him defenceless. Neither death nor the other thief had time to let him finish his ponderings. The sand in Jawad’s eyes were gone, replaced by a haze of pain instead; looking up, he saw his enemy tower over him; the cutthroat flashed a smile and a dagger, both vicious in appearance.

  Blood sprayed over Jawad. It took him a moment to realise none of it was his own. Behind his opponent stood Salah; more importantly, Salah’s short sword protruded from the rogue’s chest. Noticing the sharp thrust through the thief’s leather tunic, Jawad surmised the blade was made from Nordsteel and worth at least three times more than he initially imagined. If the Black Tooth had any opinion on the quality of the sword, he made no remark, dying with nothing but throttling sounds.