The Prince of Cats

by D E Olesen

“Sayidaty,” one of the clerks protested, managing to pronounce the title with indignation, “there are no mice here. Our storages are clean, and we have many cats to keep the vermin away.”

  “Not all vermin,” she remarked casually.

  “That’s why I am here,” Jawad told them. “There is one particular cat who must be caught.”

  Zaida let her gaze sweep the room. “He isn’t here.” Some of the servants laughed nervously, sensing that their mistress had told a jest even if they did not comprehend the conversation.

  “And with my help, he never will be,” Jawad claimed.

  “Dogs are good for keeping cats away. How do you feel about being my father’s hound?”

  Spotting Salah returning, Jawad gave a shrug. “I have no complaints, except I would prefer if Salah dressed better.”

  She frowned, looking at the warrior. “Why is that a concern of yours?”

  “He makes for an unseemly leash.”

  Zaida laughed suddenly, unexpectedly, and the clerks were quick to follow in their anxious manner. Salah reached them with a stare turned into a scowl. “Get going, thief. We don’t have all day,” he commanded brusquely.

  A start went through several of the scribes, and they shied away as Jawad confidently walked through them to enter the inner parts of the warehouse; he even kept himself from glancing behind to see if Zaida sent him a final look.

  ~~~~

  It took them the better part of the day to finish their inspection of the warehouse; Jawad was slightly disappointed to discover that Zaida was gone when they returned to the counting house. “I had not imagined that I would see the lady of the house out among the common workers, and at work even,” he said expectantly to Salah.

  “The lady does this every first day of the week,” the other man explained. “Keeping meticulous records of everything is the cornerstone of any merchant’s business.”

  “Of course, of course. But it could be done by any with the head to add and subtract numbers,” Jawad argued, “even a slave. Why would your master’s daughter concern herself with such menial labour?”

  “Some people enjoy doing an honest day’s work,” Salah said pointedly.

  “That remark will cost you,” Jawad threatened, and he threw the parchments with all his notes into Salah’s arms. “Now you can carry this home.”

  “You were just waiting for an excuse to do that,” Salah said in accusation, but the amiable expression on his face revealed that it did not bother him.

  “Salah, Salah, you know me so well.” Jawad had likewise worn a carefree demeanour; it changed in an instant when he spotted a man on the street ahead of them.

  The pair was leaving the warehouse district, which the third man was keeping under observation. While not knowing his name, Jawad knew his face from the Broken Tooth; he was a spy for the Black Teeth, watching the area to find leads on valuable marks, notice patrol patterns, and anything else that a gang of thieves might find useful. Seeing Jawad strolling on the street in casual conversation with al-Badawi’s right hand would fall into the latter category. They would realise that not only had Jawad given Hashim bad information, he had done so on purpose.

  There was no time to tell Salah; any moment, the spy would turn to look at Jawad. Immediately, the latter bent down and picked up the nearest object he could find. It happened to be a barrel of herrings. As the smell filled his nostrils, he imagined all of this was one of Elat’s whims; he had prayed to her for excitement, after all. Turning around, he joined a procession of bearers, walking back into the warehouse district to disappear.

  ~~~~

  Knowing that he could not be too cautious, Jawad walked north to follow a lengthy route, which kept him far from any areas where the Black Teeth might have a presence. When he finally felt in the clear, he sought refuge from the street by diving into a small public house. A few coins swiped from the counting house bought him a drink and a moment to think.

  Being free from his leash, Jawad considered how to make the most of it. He was sorely lacking in silver; the few petties and birds he grabbed here and there might pay for a dance, but not for a dancer. His unparalleled knowledge of Dār al-Allawn’s operations meant plenty of opportunities to organise a few outings, but there were a few obstacles. All of these opportunities required a group, and Jawad’s usual contacts were out of reach until the Black Teeth forgot about him. Furthermore, abusing his newfound knowledge would endanger any trust that al-Badawi might place in him, and for the time being, that trust was worth more than gold.

  It irked Jawad to his very bones, knowing that he could ensure entire fortunes were stolen from the merchant’s holdings. It was the dream of every common thief to have such unmatched insight into the riches belonging to one of the Hundred Houses. But Jawad was no common thief. Ignoring the itch in his fingers, he trotted around Alcázar, walking the long way home to the palace of al-Badawi.

  ~~~~

  Reaching his temporary abode, Jawad decided to slip in unseen; he needed the practice. Studying the outer wall, it took him an hour to discover a section where the stones were a little more roughly hewn and allowed him footing to scale it. The sun had set by now, and shadows enveloped him as he jumped down into the gardens that encircled the palace.

  Wiping sweat from his brow, Jawad walked to the orchards. Merely the sound of water trickling along the clever irrigation streams made him feel cooler, and he helped himself to a few figs; they tasted as sweet as only forbidden fruit did.

  Continuing, Jawad let his eyes admire the carefully tended trees and plants that skilful hands made blossom despite the arid conditions. It was in that moment she entered his vision, surrounded by flowers, none as lovely as her. The drab clothing from earlier today had been exchanged for colourful, flowing garments. As the other times he had seen her, paper, ink, and books were her companions. This drew his attention more than anything; the rest, however enchanting it might be, was to be expected, but not the tools of a scribe or scholar.

  In fact, the longer he looked, the stranger the scene appeared. While the gardens were pleasant in the evening, it was an odd location for her task; although a table had been brought out for her paper and books, she had no chair and worked standing. Furthermore, she was not adding and subtracting numbers in ledgers, doing the calculations that any merchant house depended on. Instead, she was constantly looking up at the night sky before jotting down notes.

  Following her gaze, Jawad saw nothing but the stars in the firmament above, performing their eternal dance. It took him a moment before he realised that was exactly what she was looking at.

  “Lady Pearl, you are a star-gazer?”

  She looked at him startled, clearly not expecting company. “I am,” she replied curtly, returning to her scribbling.

  “Strange. I do not see a long, white beard on you. What do you stroke while mumbling sagely into the distance?”

  “Unlike you, I have no need to stroke my vanity and pride at every turn.”

  A sharp retort almost found its way past Jawad’s teeth before he reined himself in. He reminded himself of all the ways befriending Zaida could aid him while he was in the palace of al-Badawi. “You’re right,” he admitted, changing strategy. “This is a rare opportunity to learn about a subject that few will ever have insight into. I should listen rather than talk.”

  Straightening up, she sent him a suspicious look. “You,” she spoke with extreme doubt, “you want to learn?”

  “Is that so strange? Is it not that very same desire that drives you in this very moment?”

  “I suppose,” she admitted reluctantly. “But we are hardly the same. I was raised with books and tutors, whereas you –” she stopped herself.

  “Whereas I am a street rat.”

  She looked slightly embarrassed for a moment. “I prefer to think of you as a mouse.”

  He hid his satisfaction at seeing her expression and the vulnerability it implied. “As do I. Now, are we to chatter all night about our upbringing, or will
you enlighten me?”

  She gave a cautious smile. “As you wish. I am observing the movements of the wander stars.”

  “I guess if they stayed still, there wouldn’t be much point in observing their movements.”

  To his surprise, she suddenly laughed clearly. “No, no. All stars do move, but a few of them do so irregularly and according to their own patterns entirely. They do not partake in the same flight as the rest. We call them the wander stars because of that.”

  Jawad hid his dismay that it was his ignorance and not his wit that made her laugh. “I see. And you wish to map these irregularities?”

  “In a sense. It has already been done by the Order of the Bear – the priests of the northern lands,” she added upon seeing his expression.

  “Priests in the savage lands are star-gazers as well?” Jawad frowned. He was quite certain that in Alcázar, the priests did nothing but gorge themselves on the offerings of the faithful.

  “Some of them,” Zaida nodded. “The members of this particular order have built a great observatory far to the north and made extensive observations. Once I learned of them, I wrote to their leader and have been in correspondence with them since.”

  “This conversation grows stranger by every turn,” Jawad declared. “What do you correspond about?”

  “These priests have a heated debate about whether the movements of the stars are the same from any location in the world,” Zaida explained, “or if it changes. Some of their members are far to the west, but they have no foothold in Alcázar. Thus, they have enlisted me.”

  “I see. So your observations will be compared with theirs.”

  “Precisely.” Zaida nodded eagerly. “It is of the utmost importance that I make regular observations with meticulous notes, or aspersions may be cast upon my results.”

  Jawad glanced down upon the aforementioned papers. Several columns were filled out by numbers with shorthand descriptions. “You could easily have convinced me these were a merchant’s ledgers. I would not understand those either,” he admitted with a wry smile.

  “You are not entirely wrong,” Zaida told him. “Working for my father has given me good practice for working with numbers and ensuring that not a single mistake is made.”

  Jawad nodded slowly. “Lady Pearl, you have already taught me much, including to be careful with my assumptions.”

  “Zaida,” she replied in a cordial tone. “Proper introductions seem appropriate. I assume that you do not go by Mouse?”

  “Jawad.” He gave a short bow. “Now, please continue your work. Perhaps I can write as you dictate?”

  She sent him a puzzled look. “You can write?”

  “I may have grown up without a home, but that doesn’t mean I grew up without a madrasa,” he quipped.

  She bowed her head slightly to him. “I see that I must also be careful with assuming too much, Master Jawad. As you said, let us get to work.” She gestured towards the writing tools on the table. As Jawad took hold of them and awaited her instructions, he realised that this was the first time anyone had ever addressed him with such courtesy.

  ~~~~

  An hour passed before they were disturbed; one of the guards walking his round in the gardens saw them. At first, Jawad thought nothing of it. The mamluk greeted Zaida respectfully, sent the thief a threatening look, and continued patrolling. Shortly after, however, Salah and the mamluk came walking swiftly towards them, taking in the sight of the odd pair at work.

  “See?” the guard exclaimed. “I told you!”

  “I see it with my own eyes, but I still don’t believe it,” Salah mumbled.

  “Salah? Is there a problem?” asked Zaida.

  “Forgive me for interrupting, sayidaty,” he said. “The master wanted to speak to our guest once he returned to the house.”

  “Of course. Master Jawad, thank you for your assistance,” Zaida spoke. Salah and the mamluk exchanged looks. “Salah,” she continued, “please tell my father that our guest was delayed because of me and through no fault of his own.”

  “I will be sure to mention it,” Salah promised. Jawad had his doubts.

  “Let us not keep the good master waiting,” the thief said, letting Salah lead the way into the palace. It did not escape his notice that the mamluk fell into the place as the last one, walking behind him.

  They moved through dark, empty corridors. Jawad was struck by the feeling that he was walking through an elaborate crypt, an opulent resting place for the dead rather than a residence for the living. To challenge himself, he closed his eyes and counted steps as they progressed, checking how accurate his inner map of the palace was.

  After stumbling several times, Jawad was forced to acknowledge that his inner map was not worth a rotting rat in Almudaina. He did not have to look to know Salah was glaring at him.

  When they stopped, Jawad opened his eyes and saw that not only was he inside the harāmlik, this appeared to be al-Badawi’s private study. The merchant himself sat on a comfortable sofa, wearing silken robes that would fetch a hundred silver. He also wore an angry expression.

  “It is two hours until sunrise, Salah!” he raged.

  “You bade me inform you immediately if the thief returned, effendim.”

  “Obviously not if I am fast asleep, you brainless lout!” The merchant added a few other insults directed at Salah, who stood placidly. When he seemed placated in this respect, al-Badawi turned his attention on Jawad. “You. I thought Salah was a fool – with good reason,” he added, giving the warrior an angry look, “when he said that he expected you to return.”

  “Effendi, if I have given cause to doubt my loyalty, I humbly apologise.” Jawad bowed deeply before the merchant.

  “Spare me. I should never have let Salah convince me of his dim-witted plan to let you inspect my possessions,” Al-Badawi sneered. Jawad stared at Salah upon realising that Salah had convinced the merchant of Jawad’s plan and not the reverse. “Now you have had the entire day to alert your fellow scoundrels on how to rob me blind!”

  “Effendi,” Jawad protested, “has my information not averted two attempts to steal from you already?”

  “A small sacrifice if your eyes are on the greater prize,” al-Badawi spoke coldly.

  Jawad felt a chill down his spine. “Effendi,” he spoke quickly, thinking as fast as he could. “On both those attempts, the brigands were slain by your men. Do you think I would be welcome among any of them now?”

  “He did risk his life fighting those thieves,” Salah inserted. Al-Badawi sent him an overbearing look.

  “It is easy for you to be trusting,” the merchant told his servant. “It is not your fortune at risk! As if a few dead thieves prove anything.”

  “Effendim,” Salah spoke again, “everything that Jawad told me today to improve our safety made excellent sense. If he truly plans to rob you, master, he has only made it that much harder for himself.”

  “Your naivety is astounding,” al-Badawi sneered. “That is how he lulls us to sleep while exploiting some gap that he conveniently forgot to mention to us. Not to mention, my negotiations with Dār al- Imāra are soon to begin,” the merchant complained. “I will look a fool in their eyes!”

  Jawad looked from the merchant to the warrior. His tongue was burning to defend himself, but al-Badawi’s suspicion made him doubt anything the thief said; however much Jawad despised placing his fate in the hands of another, he had to trust Salah to defend him.

  “Effendim, if you have lost faith in Jawad, he can be returned to the guards this very moment. But why not keep him here for a few days and determine whether your suspicions are correct? If Jawad has been true…” Salah paused for a moment, looking at the thief. “We will know soon enough. If he has not, a wave of thefts should strike us in the coming nights, and you can punish him as you please in retaliation.”

  Al-Badawi sent Jawad a scrutinising glance. “How can we be sure he will not slip away? He seems adept to scurry off like the rat he is.”

&nbs
p; Jawad smiled in his mind while keeping a blank face; the merchant was sceptical, but Salah was winning him over. “Effendim,” Salah spoke again, “we showed him hospitality, which he took advantage of. This time, he will be a prisoner. I guarantee you he will not escape.” Silently, Jawad agreed.

  None spoke for a while as al-Badawi considered this proposal. “Fine. We will test the honour of this thief – a sentence to make the gods weep. But I warn you, Salah. If I am robbed, I will seek compensation. And should the thief not be here to pay, I will extract it from you.” His cold tone of voice left no doubt as to what kind of payment would be demanded.

  “Yes, effendim.” Salah bowed low, grabbed hold of Jawad’s arm, and dragged him outside.

  “That went well,” Jawad smiled.

  Salah slapped the back of his head. “Quiet,” he growled. “I’ve risked my reputation on you. The more I think about it, the deeper grows the pit in my stomach. If the master is right about you, I will rip the teeth from your lying mouth, one by one.”

  “You have nothing to fear,” Jawad promised.

  “Strange how that does not comfort me,” Salah muttered. He threw Jawad into a small room and bolted the door. It was a small, confined space, which Jawad would become intimately familiar with as time dragged on.

  6. Night Never-Ending

  For the remainder of his first night, Jawad had to make do with what he could find in his new living quarters. He was left in complete darkness and had to fumble his way around. Moving on his knees, he estimated that he was in a square room about ten feet by ten. To one side, he found barrels. Dipping one hand into it, he could run his fingers through grain. At least he would not starve, he thought, throwing a few kernels into his mouth; chewing them took such effort, his jaw ached soon after.

  Next to the barrels, Jawad’s fingers found rough fabric; by the smell of it, they were horse blankets. Food and bed, he considered, continuing his search. It did not take him long to finish as there was nothing else in the small room. He realised its purpose was to store grain, hence the lack of windows; along with the stonewalls and the tightly shut door, it would keep out vermin. He wondered if the blankets had simply been left here by chance, or if Salah had shown him one small kindness. While it was pleasant to imagine the latter, it required Salah to have known he would at some point throw Jawad into this improvised prison, which was a less happy thought.