The Prince of Cats

by D E Olesen

END OF SUMMER

  Toil and labour, know the names of summer’s master

  Sweeter sleep accompanies the work done faster

  Weak the man who yields when first he feels the feared pain

  Gird your loins or lose all thought of silver-bright grain

  Note with care while sun grows strong the moon may oft wane

  Yet the poor will show himself to have the strong reign

  Some may choose a dwelling made from alabaster

  Others find their heart amidst the oleaster

  Second strophe in the poem Time and Season by the renowned poet, al-Tayir

  10. Chains

  A host of emotions threatened to overwhelm Jawad as the familiar smells of the room, in particular the horse blankets, surrounded him once more. The only reason he kept some semblance of control was the agony that suffused his body; it demanded his attention above everything else. Every pang of pain that went through him, every dull rhythm of ache, there was no escape from it.

  Eventually, Jawad’s mind had sufficiently recovered that he could think coherently. He cautiously moved each of his limbs. When he found all four to be in reasonable condition, he continued with the most important test. Slowly, he bent each of his fingers, one after the other. A broken finger was not necessarily the end of his career, but it would be if left untreated. Jawad sighed in relief as he reached his left little finger; each of his extremities appeared fine if bruised.

  Jawad was so relieved at discovering this, he forgot to be as careful when examining his face. Some of his fingertips poked against his nose, and he let out a scream. Waves of intense pain went through him, and he cursed loudly.

  Jawad had tried to delay the moment for as long as possible, but with his self-examination done, he could not keep his thoughts from overwhelming him. Even the pain was slowly subsiding. Not because it had lessened, but because he had grown accustomed to it. It still hurt, it simply did not have the force to distract him. He was once again left alone with nothing but his thoughts in the dark.

  ~~~~

  Judging by how much his physical pain had dulled and his mental despair grown, Jawad estimated that he had been imprisoned less than an hour when the door opened. While that alone was unexpected, Jawad’s jaw dropped when he saw the figure in the doorway, illuminated by the flickering lights in the hallway. She seemed a spirit rather than human, but there was no mistaking the pearl earrings she wore. A whimper came from Jawad as he closed his mouth, feeling his jaw ache.

  “Sayidaty,” protested the mamluk guarding the door. “Your father gave us strict orders.”

  “I will assume responsibility for him,” Zaida said dismissively. She extended one hand towards the thief on the floor. “I can trust you, Master Jawad, can I not?”

  He beheld her hand with wonder before accepting it. It felt blasphemous to dirty her skin with his touch. “You can,” he spoke, finally understanding what was happening. As he got on his feet, the light fell upon the bloody pulp that had been his face, but Zaida did not flinch or show the least bit of revulsion. She simply led him by the hand away from his cell, and he followed as grateful and obedient as a pup.

  Jawad’s sense of direction was not at its sharpest, but he surmised at some point that they had entered the harāmlik. He did his best to keep track of their path, learning as much as he could of this forbidden palace within the palace.

  They steered away from the few areas he knew, entering a different wing. While it had the same expensive ornaments as the rest of the harāmlik, Jawad could tell this part was meant to serve as residential quarters.

  “Take a seat,” Zaida bid him. He did as asked, sitting down upon a sofa in what he assumed was a parlour of sorts. His hostess left him, returning shortly after with a bowl of water and washcloth. She sat next to him on the couch and carefully began cleaning his face.

  “Sayidaty,” he objected, “this is unfit work for your hands.”

  “My father uses others for his dirty work, preferring to keep his hands clean.” Her jaw was so clenched, she had a hard time forming the words. “I have no wish to become my father.”

  “What do you wish to become?”

  “Quiet.” She cleaned his split lip.

  The faint scent of rosewater reached his battered nose. Each touch of the cloth sent tremors of pain through him, but relief followed soon after thanks to the cold sensation from the water. Feeling the dried blood being removed was wonderful as well. Jawad let out a deep breath he did not know he had been holding in, and his shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”

  She smiled faintly. “You’re welcome. Now be quiet and sit still.”

  He closed his eyes; they were still sore. “Answer my question, and I’ll be silent meanwhile.”

  He thought he could sense her smile growing. “Fine. If I could choose, I would travel to the Seven Realms.”

  “The what?”

  She laughed a little. “The lands in the North.”

  “Oh. Why?”

  “I would journey to the observatory of the northern priests. I could present my findings and observations to them in person and explore the results with them. Perhaps even stay and make use of their tower. Be one step closer to the heavens.” He felt how she ceased her work, and he opened his eyes to find her staring into the distance; blinking, she breathed in and resumed her careful movements. “What about you, Master Jawad?”

  “Me? I’m a thief. Same desires as any other.”

  “This is what confuses me,” she explained. “If someone were a thief, they would declare to be something else. Since you openly declare yourself as one, it makes me wonder what you actually are.”

  “I’m flattered, sayidaty, but I am as common a thief as you will ever find.”

  “That is not entirely true. Salah tells me you are a jewel thief.” She shuddered slightly. “Please don’t tell me it was Salah who did this to you.”

  “Very well, I won’t.”

  “It was him, wasn’t it? He will do anything my father bids him to do.”

  “Don’t blame Salah. I’m glad he volunteered.”

  She stopped her work. “He did what?” Her hand holding the cloth clenched into a fist.

  “Believe me, the mamluks after him were far less gentle. Salah gave me a bloody nose. Painful, yes, but it’ll heal soon, and all the blood makes it look convincing. He could have knocked out any number of teeth, broken bones or ribs, or made me a cripple.” Jawad smiled weakly. “Trust me, getting punched by Salah was the best thing that could have happened to me in that situation.”

  “You’re a strange one, Master Jawad, but if you do not hold a grudge against Salah, neither will I. My father on the other hand…”

  “I’m sorry if I have come between a father and his dutiful daughter.”

  She scoffed. “I assure you, that is not the case.”

  “I’ve seen you, spending your entire day administrating his warehouses on his behalf,” Jawad remarked. “I assumed you did so of your own volition.”

  “Because my days are long and tedious, and I enjoy any work involving numbers and arithmetic,” Zaida explained. “My father could not care less if the work is done by me or a slave.”

  “Odd. Wouldn’t most fathers want their children to tread in their footsteps?”

  “If I had been a son, undoubtedly.” Zaida smiled ruefully. She had long since finished her task cleaning his wounds, but she continued the careful touch of her washcloth against his skin. “As it stands, I cannot inherit his place as the head of Dār al-Allawn. One day, he will choose a suitable husband for me, who will have that honour.”

  “I wasn’t aware.”

  “My father hopes that he can leverage my marriage to rise from the Hundred and reach the Council of Ten. Exchange his silver ring for one of gold and be the head of Qasr al-Allawn.” She smiled sardonically. “So you see, I am most valuable to my father. He would not sell me for anything less than three hundred gold pieces.”

  Jawad made of show of checking his
pockets. “A pity. I only have about two hundred on me, or I would make an offer right now.”

  She laughed. “You have time, master thief.” Her laughter grew still. “Every day, I consider if I should simply leave. I could make it quite far before my father ever realised I was gone. Yet every day, I know that I never will. Every day, I will choose to stay and do as I am expected to.”

  “We are all slaves in this world,” Jawad remarked casually. “We may have different chains, but all of us are shackled nonetheless.”

  “How so?”

  “You are a slave to tradition, sayidaty. Your father is to his wealth. Salah is to his honour. It all makes us act in ways we would prefer not to.”

  “What about you, Master Jawad?”

  “Me?” The thief grinned. “Like all hojon, I am a slave to my stomach. It growls, I obey.”

  Laughter returned to her face. “You make me laugh, Master Jawad.”

  He inclined his head in a display of courtesy. “That is all I could want. Other than three hundred gold pieces, maybe.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by Salah. He approached them with an apprehensive expression and moved so quietly, Zaida only noticed him once Jawad did. “Salah!” the thief exclaimed; a smile filled his bruised face. “Back already?”

  “Yes.” Salah cleared his throat. “The guard told me Lady Zaida released you, so I thought I might find you here.” The lady in question pointedly looked away, refusing to acknowledge Salah’s presence.

  “How did your master’s affairs go? Was he able to rectify the issue?” Jawad asked, sounding earnest.

  “He managed to secure his trade with the Kabir’s household, yes,” Salah confirmed.

  Part of Jawad felt utter disappointment; the rational part knew this was a good outcome. “Excellent. When may I have an audience with him, do you think?”

  Salah looked at him with incredulity. “You want to speak to the master?” he asked slowly.

  “Of course.” Jawad looked and was completely serious. His petty attempt of revenge had been a mistake; it was time for the thief to rectify his own mistake and regain al-Badawi’s trust. “I can be of service. Your master is far too good a merchant to discard something as valuable as me.”

  Salah sent him a doubtful look. “I will arrange something for tomorrow or the day after.”

  “Excellent.” Jawad grinned as Salah left; turning back to look at Zaida, he found her staring at him with disbelief.

  “After all this, you will return to work for my father?” Disappointment tinged her voice.

  “Just as Salah will, and you, sayidaty. Slaves, the lot of us.” He rose from the sofa and bowed to her. “You have my gratitude, Lady Zaida. I will see myself out.” She did not bid him farewell in return.

  He left her chambers swiftly, not wanting to see the look on her face. Before he returned to the servants’ quarters in search of a bed and rest, he made sure to thoroughly traverse the harāmlik and make a mental map of its every corner.

  ~~~~

  The next day, Jawad was approached by Salah. “The master will grant you an audience now,” the warrior said. His voice made it clear he was still confused by Jawad’s request. “Why you would want one, I can’t say.”

  “Salah, we have work to do,” Jawad smiled. “Besides, he is sure to be in a good mood. The whole situation yesterday resolved itself for the better, didn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” Salah admitted as they began walking down the hallway. “I’ll say, I’ve never met anyone so cheerful after a vicious beating.”

  “Vicious? Hardly. Any fight you walk away from with all your teeth still in your mouth is a good fight, my brother always told me.”

  “I didn’t know you had family.”

  Jawad’s face darkened for a moment; walking behind Salah, the latter did not notice. When he spoke, Jawad’s voice carried its usual mirth. “We all do, Salah. One day, I’ll explain to you where children come from.”

  “Do not think the master is pleasantly disposed towards you,” Salah warned him. “In all honesty, I can only imagine that you’re digging your own grave by seeking him out.”

  “Salah, it almost sounds as if you care,” Jawad smiled. They passed the mamluks guarding the entry to the harāmlik; one of them was among the trio that had tested Jawad’s tolerance for pain yesterday. The thief made sure to wink at him while committing his facial features to memory, just in case the opportunity ever arose to lace his tea with some manner of laxative concoction procured from Ishak.

  “I just don’t want to get my hands bloody again,” Salah mumbled. His knuckles were bruised from where they had made impact with Jawad’s nose.

  “Don’t worry. My face is a lot softer this morning. I doubt you’ll hurt yourself this time around.”

  “I’m sorry,” Salah muttered under his breath as they approached al-Badawi’s study. Before Jawad could respond, the warrior stepped inside quickly.

  Al-Badawi looked up irritated. “Make it quick before I decide to have you locked up again.”

  “I will, effendi. I have had good time to reflect upon the events of the last few days,” Jawad spoke. “It always struck me as strange that the Prince of Cats would abandon his assault upon your wealth. He has been at it for months now, after all.”

  “So?” al-Badawi asked, writing in the ledger before him. “He is an ignorant thief! He would hardly have the mind to understand my business or how to interfere.”

  “Not on his own, effendi. But Dār al-Gund would know. In fact, did they not bait you to move against them? By seeking to undermine your trade, they practically forced your hand,” Jawad suggested.

  Still writing, al-Badawi made a scoffing sound. “They are vermin, no doubt, but hardly that capable to set snares before me.”

  “Not on their own, no. But two weak enemies may united achieve what divided they could not.”

  Al-Badawi ceased scribbling. “You think they are in league together?”

  “There is some sense to it,” Salah conceded. “I have pointed out to you in the past, effendim, it never made sense why this prince would so wantonly destroy your possessions. For instance, remember the caravan lost in the desert? There had to be deeper reason for it.”

  “It would explain everything. The Prince does not seek to rob you, but ruin you, effendi,” Jawad suggested. “What better alliance to accomplish this? One party has the knowledge to bring you down, the other has the necessary skills to make use of that knowledge.”

  The merchant put down his quill. “They would not be so bold,” he stated, but his voice was uncertain.

  “Who can tell with these northern villains? I would not put it past them to use any means possible to usurp your rightful place, effendi,” Jawad declared.

  Al-Badawi picked up his feather pen again. “Let them. I do not fear them,” he proclaimed. Despite his words, his brow remained furrowed in contemplation, and he did not resume writing.

  “Effendi, with your blessing, I will investigate further. I believe I can uncover the identity of the Prince now.”

  “Bold claim, considering you have so far failed to deliver,” al-Badawi said dismissively.

  “Finding one thief in Alcázar, even the most infamous of all, is no easy task. He hides behind messengers and often works alone. But finding a thief working in concord with northern merchants,” Jawad smiled, “that is an entirely different prospect. Now, I know where to look for him.”

  The merchant looked up, staring at Jawad. “Do not disappoint me further.”

  “Never, effendi.” The thief bowed and left.

  Once outside the study, Salah caught up to him. “Jawad.”

  “Yes?”

  “The master has little patience for failure. If you fuck this up…”

  “I would never,” Jawad smiled.

  “He won’t bother sending you to the Tower of Justice. He’ll have me take care of it, right then and there. I’d prefer not to,” Salah told him earnestly.

  “Salah, I
’d never put you in such a delicate situation. Trust me.”

  “Not in a heartbeat,” Salah mumbled, watching Jawad leave with a carefree expression.

  11. Best Laid Plans

  Jawad left the palace of al-Badawi with a light heart. He had bought himself time and continued access to the merchant’s home. The document inside his shirt proclaiming him to be in al-Badawi’s employ, with the protection this conferred, was useful to have as well. He was not concerned about completing his new task; since he already knew about the connection between the Prince and Dār al-Gund, presenting this discovery to al-Badawi was child’s play. Jawad merely needed to spend some time making it seem he was conducting investigations, as he felt quite certain that the merchant, or Salah, still had him watched. Fortunately, there were plenty of ventures that an enterprising thief such as himself could undertake.

  Jawad was not keen on revealing the existence and location of his allies to al-Badawi’s spy following him; his plans worked best when the different parts were kept unaware of each other. But in this case, it seemed unavoidable, and he could always make up an explanation for his movements. For instance, if he were asked why he had gone to visit an alchemist, the answer would be to have his wounds examined.

  “Jawad, you goat hoof! What are you doing here?”

  “Ishak, I need to have my wounds examined.” The easiest explanation to sell tended to be the truth.

  The alchemist narrowed his eyes. “You’re trying to trick me, aren’t you. Half an hour later when I’ve spent all my lizard scales, you reveal that your skin was always discoloured from birth.”

  “Ishak, you’ve seen me before. You know I don’t look like this normally.”

  “Why do you presume I know you?”

  “You greeted me by name when you opened the door.”

  Ishak looked sceptical. “A likely story, but until I can prove you wrong, I guess you can come inside.” The front door slowly croaked open on its hinges.

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “Don’t thank me. People tend to do that because they don’t want to pay.” The alchemist turned a sharp eye on Jawad. “Is that your game?” he suddenly said in accusation.