The Prince of Cats

by D E Olesen

  “I have your lock picks,” Salah told him, speaking almost without judgement in his voice.

  “Good, but I need more than that. I will have to go out and procure it, which requires coin.”

  “How much?” asked Salah.

  Jawad made a few calculations; twenty should be enough. “Sixty silver.”

  “See to it,” al-Badawi commanded Salah with a bored voice. “Now leave me.”

  Jawad marvelled at how someone could spend sixty birds without even blinking; this was wealth, he understood, being able to spend enough coin to feed a whole family for a month without a second thought.

  He followed Salah out of the room and through the hallways, leaving the harāmlik. “Wait here,” Salah told him, disappearing. Jawad smiled, guessing that the warrior had gone to fetch the coin, and he did not want the thief to know where it was kept. Shortly after, Salah returned with a heavy purse, throwing it to Jawad. “I’m guessing there’s twice as much in there than what you actually need.”

  Jawad grinned. “Twice as much? You think that little of me? I obviously asked for thrice as much.”

  An expression ran across Salah’s face; then he laughed. “Well, it’s not like the master can’t afford it.” His face turned serious. “Besides, I figure you’re owed something. It wasn’t right keeping you trapped like that.”

  Jawad’s face darkened before he masked his feelings again. “No harm done. I still have both my hands, which is more than if I had been in the Finger.”

  “What about this task? Are you up for it?”

  Jawad gave a self-assured smile. “Just another night’s work for me.”

  ~~~~

  He had his mark, the time to strike, and soon also the remaining tools; what Jawad still lacked was knowledge. Not about his target. While he usually would spend time studying the location before any breaking and entering, the Lady of Luck was on his side; he was already familiar with the place. No, Jawad was not curious about his mark, but his employer. Al-Badawi had told Jawad what he wanted to know, but not why. And while curiosity might have killed the cat, it was an essential part of any thief’s toolkit.

  To this end, Jawad made a brief stop in the kitchens before continuing to a particular room in the palace. He knocked and entered once given leave, stepping inside a study that was clearly modelled on al-Badawi’s, except the walls and floor were bare, and the furniture was made from cheap wood, not cedar.

  Dars, al-Badawi’s personal clerk, looked up to greet Jawad; his smile increased seeing the tray that the latter was holding. “It’s not yet evening,” he pointed out.

  “And this is not tea. You work so hard, I thought for once you deserved wine,” Jawad told him, putting the tray down and pouring a cup for each of them.

  “That’s kind of you. But a rogue like you,” Dars continued with a wry smile, “I am sure you have an ulterior motive.”

  Jawad made an awkward expression. “You caught me. I could use your help.”

  Dars accepted one of the cups. While a slave, his penmanship and ability with numbers had secured a more trusted position than most servants in al-Badawi’s household. He was free to move about as he pleased, and he had great insight into the merchant’s affairs. He had been among the first servants that Jawad befriended. “Nobody ever sees Dars unless they want something,” he said as a mock complaint. While his appearance suggested an origin from the lands south of Alcázar, his speech was that of a native.

  “At least I brought wine.”

  “I will concede that.” Dars took a sip. “It’s strong.”

  It was, nearly undiluted. Jawad took a cautious sip of his own and broached the subject he had come to discuss. “As you’ve probably guessed, the master has given me a task.”

  “I assumed as much, yes. It all seemed very secretive,” Dars said, sounding a little thrilled.

  “Given how the master trusts you, I see no harm in divulging a few details. I know you would never reveal them to anyone else.”

  “Of course not,” Dars declared. Jawad had no doubt that Dars would relate everything to the servant girls at earliest opportunity; the thief knew Dars had eyes for several if not all of them.

  “In turn, I am hoping you can explain a few things to me that will make my task easier. I would have asked the master, but –” Jawad gave a sheepish look.

  “He does not invite questions.” It was clear that Dars could sympathise.

  Jawad leaned forward, lowering his voice. “He has sent me to Dār al-Gund.”

  Dars gave an overbearing smile. “They may call themselves Dār, but they are not one of the Hundred Houses. At least not yet.” His expression turned serious, and he likewise lowered his voice. “Why?”

  “I am to inspect their storerooms,” Jawad claimed. No reason to let Dars know the exact truth. “But the master did not tell me what exactly to keep an eye out for. As you can imagine, this is an imposing assignment! I would fare better knowing what exactly the master’s interest in these northerners might be.”

  Dars scratched his forehead. “Well, they sell arms first and foremost. That is why they call themselves the House of Army. But they do trade in yellow dye as well,” Dars added in sudden remembrance.

  “Odd. I didn’t know they had such things in the North.”

  “They usually don’t,” Dars assented, “but yellow dye is mostly made from weld, which grows only in the North.”

  “You are a font of knowledge,” Jawad smiled. “That explains the master’s interest. Do you think he wishes to purchase their stores?”

  Dars laughed. “Hardly. Dār al-Gund are the master’s rivals. Neither would sell nor buy to the other.”

  Jawad knew this; their rivalry with al-Badawi was why he was already well-acquainted with them. But he made sure that to Dars, it seemed as if great revelations were being bestowed upon him. “I never knew. So I am being sent to a competitor, not a partner.”

  “Indeed. Though it is a little funny. Your guess would have been correct if it had been any other merchant house than Dār al-Gund,” Dars revealed.

  “Oh?” Jawad made sure to pretend he drank deep from his wine; seeing this prompted Dars to drink of his own without even being conscious of it.

  “The master has been buying up all the yellow dye in the city,” Dars said almost in a whisper. His face was blushing with heat. Tasting the wine, Jawad considered if he should have diluted it further. At least it would make the memory of the conversation hazy in the clerk’s mind, Jawad reasoned.

  “That strikes me as strange,” Jawad said, playing the fool. Seeing Dars’ cup empty, Jawad refilled it for good measure. “Our master makes his coin buying dye in other cities and selling it here, not the other way around.”

  Dars gave a broad smile; Jawad estimated it was partly from feeling superior, partly from too much wine. “Many of the servants in the Kabir’s palace, especially the eunuchs, wear yellow clothes. In ten – eleven – or twelve days’ time?” Dars’ famed ability for arithmetic had met its match in Jawad’s servings. “Soon,” Dars finally settled on, “the palace will be making bids to buy new stores. It’s a sizeable chunk of our master’s income, supplying our ruler’s palace. Not as valuable to him as the purple dye, of course, but it’ll be a month at least before that comes into play.”

  Jawad nodded slightly, looking calm; it was best if Dars thought this information was of little interest to Jawad. In fact, the thief could barely contain his jubilance; the clerk had possibly just handed Jawad the keys to al-Badawi’s strongbox. Not in the literal sense, as Jawad was sure he could pick his way through any lock in his way. No, what Dars had done was confirm the vulnerabilities in al-Badawi’s stronghold, and after being imprisoned in utter darkness for weeks upon that man’s orders, Jawad felt ready to take advantage of them all.

  The thief remained in Dars’ study for a while longer, letting the conversation move to other topics. He also made sure the scribe finished his third cup; it was best if Dars’ memory of the conversation wa
s hazy.

  When Jawad eventually managed to excuse himself, he left behind a scribe humming a half-remembered song about a sailor, a tavern wench and a whole barrel of fennel seeds.

  ~~~~

  As night fell, Jawad walked south. He knew he was not welcome anywhere near the territory of the Black Teeth; as long as Hashim was alive, he would blame Jawad for the failed burglary attempt that had killed several of his crew. Jawad could imagine how Hashim would seek compensation, and since Jawad preferred his fingers attached to his hands, it made sense to stay far away from the gang that ruled the streets of southern Alcázar.

  Unfortunately, tonight’s task required tools. Had he been given more time, Jawad could simply have strolled into Dār al-Gund and gotten the information he needed. Since that was not the case, this would have to be done the old-fashioned way. Time aside, Jawad had a sneaking suspicion that he was being watched as he walked south. It made sense that the paranoid al-Badawi would keep him under watch. Jawad was not sure, since he made no attempt to look behind or evade any potential shadow; he did not wish to make al-Badawi aware that he knew he was being watched. It was better to put on a show that proved his skills and loyalty.

  Reaching Amal’s house, Jawad made his way inside and upstairs to where Amal had her room. In an unusual display of courtesy, he knocked and waited for her to use the small spyhole before she opened the door. “I don’t want you here. Go.”

  A cold welcome, but Jawad knew the magic words. “I have your coin.”

  “I don’t care,” Amal said, and she sounded almost convincing. “The Teeth are in arms about you. Get your fucking face elsewhere.”

  Jawad dug out some of the silver pieces he owed the fence. “Are you sure?”

  She stared at the coins and finally extended her hand. “Fine. Give it to me and then get your fucking face somewhere else.”

  He closed his fist around the money. “Not that simple. I need a few other things. Which I will pay for immediately,” he hurried to say.

  “You’ve always been far more trouble than you’re worth,” Amal told him with disdain, but she relented and opened the door wide. “Make it fast. I know you can be quick.”

  As a professional thief, Jawad let the insult slide. “I need a thieves’ friend and a grappling hook.” He counted out the coins he owed her for the lock picks, placing it on her table.

  “I got the lamp, but no hook,” Amal told him, sweeping up the silver. She opened a drawer, putting the coins away and pulling out a curiously looking lantern instead.

  “I can manage, I suppose.” Jawad placed four silver pieces on the table.

  “Eight. If I am dealing with you and your shit, it’s going to cost you double.”

  Jawad sent her an offended look but threw down another four coins. “There.” He extended his hand to take the lamp.

  Amal pulled it back, out of his reach. “What’s the mark you’re pulling?”

  “I’ll tell you for four birds.” Jawad sent her a sly smile.

  “Fuck off. I mean it, and don’t come back either.”

  “I’ve missed your charm,” Jawad said, walking out. Amal’s only reply was shutting the door.

  ~~~~

  The lantern had a small hook, allowing it to be securely attached to a belt and leaving his hands free. Leaving Amal’s house, both hands empty, Jawad moved through the streets to see another acquaintance. He knocked on the door with the sign of alchemy upon it. This was the one house where he did not dare use any other entrance than the front door; interrupting Ishak during his alchemy carried a risk that Jawad could not calculate how to minimise or avoid. Best to let sleeping cats lie.

  “What do you want?” a voice yelled from behind the door.

  “It’s me, I have the coin I owe you. Would you open up?” Jawad asked impatiently. Looking up and down the open street, he felt vulnerable.

  The door was opened furiously, revealing an elderly man. He stared at Jawad with a wild expression, lifting up a candle to illuminate his visitor’s face. “You got my coin?”

  “I do.”

  Ishak stepped back to let Jawad enter. “Come in, young man, don’t be shy.”

  Jawad sent the alchemist a scrutinising gaze. “Ishak, do you remember who I am?”

  “Of course I do! You’re…” the old man mumbled a few sounds, stroking his beard. “Here to repay the money I lent you.”

  “I’m Jawad,” the thief said, stressing each syllable. “You examined me, and I promised to pay you later.” He put two silver pieces in Ishak’s hand. Given the alchemist’s state of mind, it would have been easy to befuddle him, but while Jawad had little respect for the law, he placed pride in keeping a deal made with those few people he considered trustworthy. Plus, given Ishak’s shaky state of mind, he might suddenly remember one day and decide that gruesome death by poison would be adequate revenge against Jawad for cheating him of two birds, which upon closer consideration was a good way of ensuring people paid their debts.

  “You’re a good boy,” Ishak told Jawad, biting down on one of the coins. “Tastes like metal.” The alchemist spat into a small bowl.

  Jawad set aside his thoughts on debt collection to mention the reason he had come. “Ishak, I need one of your wicks. I’ll pay.” He showed another two coins.

  “Donkey beaks!” Ishak exclaimed. “What do you need it for? You got plenty of hair.”

  It took a moment for Jawad to unravel how Ishak had misunderstood him. “No, I need a wick! One of your special wicks that burn slow.” The thief gestured towards the many cupboards and closets containing Ishak’s numerous concoctions and ingredients.

  “Why didn’t you say so,” Ishak mumbled, rummaging through a few drawers until he found a thick piece of string. “There. It’ll last you six hours, I swear on my aunt’s grave.” He leaned forward to whisper. “I always swear by that. I don’t actually have any aunts, they’re all dead.” He snickered.

  “I’ll take your word for it.” In fact, Jawad did not take Ishak’s word for it; he had used these wicks plenty of times before and trusted his experiences with them. He placed the coins in Ishak’s hand. “I should light it now when I have the chance. Do you mind if I borrow this for a moment?” He reached out towards the candle that Ishak had held when answering the door.

  “You can keep it if you want,” the alchemist told him generously. “I have the eyes of a cat anyway.” He pointed at a jar containing several eyeballs.

  Jawad regretted having looked. “Just a bit of flame will do.” He lit one end of the wick; as it began burning slowly, he placed the wick inside the small lamp hanging by his belt. Its light disappeared; all the panels of the lantern were darkened. “There we are. Take care, Ishak,” he told the old man as he left.

  “I’ll get to work on that wig you wanted!” Ishak called out after him.

  ~~~~

  Jawad moved through the streets with speed; he did not have infinite time, after all. His destination was a small estate close to the western docks; as the location where most northern ships moored, it made sense for Dār al-Gund to be situated nearby.

  Jawad had been inside the compound before, and he had a good idea of how the structures were laid out. While making his way there, he considered everything he knew about the place. There were two larger buildings. One provided housing for the servants and those of lesser rank. The other lay in the very middle of the enclosure. It served as residence for the leaders of the merchant house and acted as their offices; it was Jawad’s target tonight. Besides these two, the location had a small stable for horses and carts by the courtyard lying just behind the gate. Finally, storage rooms lay at the back of the compound.

  While the warehouse under normal circumstances would make for a good approach, being a windowless structure that would keep him hidden much of the way, it was also the building most likely to be under guard, even during solstice night. Without knowing where those guards would be posted exactly, the risk was too great. The servant homes were sure to have re
vellers celebrating, and while they no doubt were also drunk and inattentive, there would be too many eyes that Jawad could be sure to evade them all.

  That left the stables. Even if the horses saw him, they knew to keep a secret. His decision made, Jawad felt a sense of anticipation rising in him. It peaked as the outer wall surrounding the compound of Dār al-Gund came into view. It had been a long time since he had practised his craft. Jawad knew that regardless of the circumstances, regardless of the outcome, he was going to enjoy this night.

  8. The House of Army

  Jawad moved to the side of the compound where he knew the stables were located and studied the wall in front of him. A grappling hook would have made it easy to scale the obstacle, but he was forced to do it the simple way. Having to work in poor visibility, Jawad let his hands run over the stonework to detect where it was crudest; the rougher the stones had been hewn, the more places for his hands and feet to hang on.

  The wall was about fifteen feet high, which meant Jawad could only inspect the wall to a certain height; this proved an issue. It was not difficult to find a few jagged stones that he might step onto, but he had trouble finding the same higher up, allowing him to complete his ascent. He had no choice but to keep searching, stepping up as high as he could and searching the stones further up. As he could not see, but only feel, his progress was slow; it took him half an hour until he finally felt something promising.

  His footing was not the best; he was standing on his toes. But at the very height that his fingers could reach, he felt a small outcrop; it was just enough to hang onto by his fingertips. With a smile, he took hold with both hands and moved his foot up to find another steppingstone.

  His smile disappeared, feeling his fingers slip. Accompanied by the unpleasant sound of his nails scraping against stone, he lost his grip. He clawed desperately against the wall to no effect. One moment later, he fell flat on his back, landing on the street.

  The wind was knocked out of him, and he gasped without being able to breathe. With sudden fear, he moved his hands to inspect the lantern hanging by his belt. He relaxed a little upon feeling it intact; his body had broken the fall, which seemed both fortunate and unfortunate. Somewhere, Jawad was sure, the Lady of Luck was looking upon his struggles and laughing.