The Prince of Cats

by D E Olesen

  The purple dye was beyond his reach. He had bought himself a reprieve from the Black Teeth, but he would not underestimate them again. They were undoubtedly watching his every step, ready to strike once they realised he would not deliver as promised. He could not expect even al-Badawi’s palace to be a sanctuary from their revenge. Not that Jawad imagined the outcome would be different if he actually could bring them the information they sought; he was only safe while they thought he was useful, and that would only last two more days.

  His recent setback meant that all his plans for al-Badawi might be spoiled as well. With that being the case, and the Black Teeth breathing down his neck, Jawad saw no choice but to drive the spurs into his schemes. “Ishak,” he said, “I need to continue your work. Proceed with everything that you were doing for me.”

  “My utmost pleasure.” The alchemist gave a bow. “Only one problem. I’ve refined the recipes as you wanted to the point that the gods themselves cry tears witnessing the artistry.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I’ve spent all the materials doing so. Chicken scales don’t grow on rocks, as you well know.”

  “Of course.” Jawad was in fact unaware of this.

  “It’ll cost me all my coin and more to replenish my stocks and continue the work.”

  “Just finish it. I’ll reimburse you as soon as I can,” the thief promised.

  Ishak sent him a look as he sat on the bed in a dirty, worn tunic, not even owning a pair of sandals. “I have the utmost confidence you will.” He turned to rummage through a few belongings scattered on the floor, digging out some old footwear and throwing them to his patient. “I don’t want you ruining all my good work,” he added, gesturing to Jawad’s bandaged feet.

  “Much obliged.” He began tying the sandals to his feet.

  “Funny.”

  “What is?”

  “The city’s on fire.”

  Jawad jerked his head up to see Ishak staring out the window. “Close to us?”

  The old man shook his head. “North of here, beyond the docks. The merchant district. Wind is blowing away from us,” he added, glancing at laundry that hang outside drying.

  Jawad relaxed. “That’s something, at least. I don’t think I could handle any more calamities.”

  “Not everything that happens in this city is about you, boy,” Ishak reproached him.

  Jawad finished tying the sandals, and only then did a slow chain of thought unroll in his mind. He had been held captive for days, missing his meeting with Dār al-Gund. They had planned contingencies if he failed to stop al-Badawi from selling his precious goods. When Jawad had not made contact, they would have set those plans into motion. Specifically, they would have set the warehouses on fire. Al-Badawi’s storages and offices were burning. It was the first day of the week. The one day that every week without fail, Zaida – he leapt to his feet and ran out the building.

  ~~~~

  Jawad ignored the torment he was putting his damaged feet through, running through the streets. He was constantly being pushed back or having to evade the stream of people rushing away from the fires, hindering his progress. Never before had the distance between southern Alcázar and the merchant district seemed so great to him.

  His mind was aflame as well. Days of torture and humiliation, the unravelling of all his carefully laid plans, and everything else he had suffered over the last few months had come close to breaking him, but he had kept himself together, he had survived, he had come back, only to be met with this. He knew now that the gods cared nothing for men. He was fate’s plaything, and this was the final cruelty, the final jest, after which he would be discarded. All that he had done, all that he had gone through, all of it had arranged the current situation, making a mockery of his torments. He would be too late to stop it; at best, he would arrive to see the result. And he would know it was by his own doing.

  What other explanation than the scornful laughter of the gods could there be? Jawad clung to this belief as he ran past the docks. Several ships had unmoored to put water between themselves and any flammable buildings. The sailors were watching the blazing inferno calmly, having nothing at risk anymore.

  Yes, the gods were to blame. They had set this up, set him up. They had arranged so that he would unwittingly be the culprit; that the only person to treat him with courtesy, with respect, to make him feel like he was a man and not a mongrel of the street, to make him feel – that she would perish under such horrible circumstances. This thought repeated in Jawad’s mind, over and over, doing its best to drown out the only other possible answer. If he could not blame fate or some other higher power, Jawad could only blame himself.

  In his haste, he tripped over a crate. “Fuck! Fuck you all!” he screamed at the heavens, lying flat on his stomach. “Whores, the lot of you!” He gasped for breath, stumbling to get up. As he continued his frenzied run, the heavens responded by opening up and pouring torrents of water down. Although too early for the season, the first of the winter rains had come to Alcázar.

  Within moments, he was soaked and cold to the bone. He could smell the smoke now. He already tried to keep his breathing to a minimum, as each gasp of air made his broken ribs scream in pain. With the smoke filling his throat and making his eyes tear, Jawad could not imagine any way he could be more pitiful.

  He had to stop running. His feet, chest, and general physical state did not allow any further exertion. Still, he continued his dogged advance. The streets were mostly empty now, but ahead he heard shouts from those attempting to fight the fire. There was little they could do to extinguish it. Their efforts were concentrated around creating an empty belt of land that would keep the flames at bay and prevent them from consuming more of the city.

  Turning a corner, a wall of heat struck Jawad. Already, the fires were receding thanks to the heavy rainfall; large, smouldering warehouses lay resembling burned-out husks, sending pillars of smoke into the air like prayers to the heavens.

  Jawad’s gaze swept over the gathering of people. Most of them were frantically working to contain the fire; he recognised some of them as the clerks and workers in al-Badawi’s employ.

  His next physical reaction was such that the wind was knocked out of him. Standing near them, directing their efforts, coloured by the smoke but otherwise unharmed, she was a flower in a land of desolation.

  He took a few uncertain paces forward, trying to call her name. No sound issued from his lips; only tears appeared. He was almost close enough to touch her when she noticed him. Upon seeing his tormented figure, she recoiled until she recognised his features through everything that lay upon him. Countless questions could be seen upon her face.

  He closed the distance between them; with his dirty, soaked tunic, his damaged ribs, and shattered hand, Jawad embraced her tightly, and Zaida returned the gesture.

  END OF HARVEST

  Men may spend their lives in search of hard-won treasure,

  Sun will shine on rich and poor in equal measure

  Fools repeat wise words avoiding honest toil’s sweat

  Never knowing hollow wisdom shall incur debt

  Gentle life, sweet days that seem to be without threat

  Soon grows bitter, cold and harsh as harvest stars set

  Often days that seem to bring the start of leisure

  May instead be heralding the end of pleasure

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

  17. Enemies in High Places

  “Jawad? Are you hurt?” Extricating herself from his embrace, Zaida looked at him with concern.

  “All is well,” he reassured her, managing a worn smile.

  “Were you caught in the fire?” She glanced at the ruins.

  “No, I was far from here when I saw the smoke.”

  “You have been gone for days. Salah thought you were not returning. Your hand!” she exclaimed, noticing the bandage.

  “I was detained by some unpleasant fellows. A
risk that comes with the business I am in.”

  “Working for my father.” A scowl appeared on her face, but it did not diminish her lovely features. “This must end. You will die doing his bidding.”

  “All I do is by my own choice.” The rain had lessened, falling gentler now.

  She cautiously took hold of his wrist, caressing his skin while avoiding any touch to his damaged hand. “Jawad, nothing can be worth this.”

  He swallowed, looking at her eyes staring back at him. Try as he might, words to explain himself refused to appear. “Zaida,” was all he managed to say.

  “While I am embarrassed by it, I should confess that I thought you had left for good.” She glanced downwards. “I gave it a lot of thought, in fact.”

  “I see.”

  “I could only imagine two reasons you would remain in my father’s house. Either to seek his favour by catching this criminal that plagues him, or to steal from him.”

  “Sayidaty –”

  “What jewel thief could resist the temptation… when I told you about the jinni and the gem, you had heard the story beforehand, had you not?”

  “I had.”

  “The Prince of Cats, the Heart of the Sands… these are fairy-tale names. It would not matter if you were chasing one or the other, as neither exists. They are stories for children, rumours, and hearsay.” She smiled without mirth and looked up at him. “I thought you had finally realised this and left in the night.”

  “That is how a thief would do it,” Jawad admitted, “and I make no secret of who I am. But I have no intentions of robbing your father, sayidaty.”

  “Then why do you stay? To chase a phantom of my father’s imagination? You will never catch a thief that does not exist!”

  Jawad had no answer. Her hands were still touching his skin, making it difficult for him to think. “How do you know?” he managed to ask.

  “Jawad, I know everything about my father’s business. Misfortune began to haunt him long before any so-called Prince, and that is all it is! Ill luck striking in different places,” she told him. “If anybody is punishing my father, it is the gods, not any man.”

  “Maybe the gods sent the Prince.”

  “Jawad, it’s time to stop. You need to leave my father’s house before it kills you,” she pleaded, staring at him.

  He could not meet her gaze. “I have to find him.”

  “He does not exist! How could one man disrupt caravans in Surru, ships from Gadir, and everywhere else all over the Inner Sea? None of this is connected except in my father’s delusions. Jawad, do not die to satisfy the ghost of my father’s fear. Please.”

  He raised his eyes sufficiently to see Zaida biting her lower lip in anxiety, but he had no words to reassure her.

  “Zaida!” He recognised the voice as Salah’s. The warrior came galloping towards them, bringing the horse to an abrupt halt. With the ease of a skilled equestrian, he dismounted and placed both hands on her shoulders, inserting himself between her and Jawad. “I feared the worst.” He glanced around, looking at the destroyed warehouses.

  “I am fine,” she assured him.

  “What a disaster, but at least you are not hurt,” Salah spoke before he turned his attention on Jawad. “When the gods throw dice, they throw them all! I thought you were dead.”

  “You didn’t think I’d run off?”

  “Nothing of value was missing from the house,” Salah pointed out.

  “Fair point.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “It’s a long story.” One that Jawad needed time to concoct. “You should bring Lady Zaida home.”

  “What about you?” she asked concerned.

  “There is something I must attend to,” he told her. “I’ll be back before nightfall,” he added to Salah.

  The warrior looked at him and unclasped his cloak, throwing it around Jawad’s shoulders. “You’ll catch your death in this rain. Do you need the horse?”

  Jawad shook his head. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  “Very well. See you tonight.”

  Salah helped Zaida mount the horse, and they set off towards al-Badawi’s estate, whereas Jawad set a course towards Dār al-Gund.

  ~~~~

  Stalking towards the northerner’s compound, Jawad felt fury raging inside of him. He wanted each of the pale bastards to pay. Eventually, as his stalking became staggering, the pain from every step taken began to sober him up. As ire subsided, self-preservation filled the void. Dār al-Gund was a large compound, filled with people, several of whom were armed. Jawad did not even have a blunt letter opener. Nor did he have a single copper coin or any tools at his disposal. In fact, all three pieces of clothing he was currently wearing had been given to him out of pity or scorn.

  Not that Jawad felt any of this was an impossible hindrance. He maintained that his greatest weapon was his mind, which at least remained intact. Even so, he was ready to admit to himself that having only his wits at his disposal, subtler means for dealing with Dār al-Gund was called for.

  Approaching the compound, the thief remembered another obstacle. The Black Teeth were already hounding him. Making outright enemies of Dār al-Gund as well might not be the best move. In fact, Jawad considered, perhaps one problem could solve another.

  The guards eyed him lazily. “No beggars,” came a growl.

  “I bring a message for Master Tibert.”

  “Hand it over then.”

  “A spoken message,” Jawad clarified. “For his ears only.”

  “Right,” the guard laughed and made a remark in his own language to his comrade. “Sod off,” he added for Jawad’s benefit.

  “Tell Master Tibert that Jawad is here to see him.”

  “And he’ll have my tongue for wasting his time. Now piss off!” He raised the blunt end of his spear as a threat.

  Jawad stared at him, showing no fear. After what he had endured, fear had been stripped from his being. “He’ll have your balls when he finds out you turned me away.”

  The other guard muttered something. “Fine,” said the first one. “I’ll let the steward handle you. Come along,” he sneered, letting Jawad step past the gate.

  They crossed the courtyard to reach the main hall. The guard stayed one step behind Jawad, keeping an eye on him.

  Once inside, a flurry of words were exchanged in Nordspeech. Jawad stood patiently waiting meanwhile. Finally, a servant of some kind beckoned for him to follow. The thief did as instructed, pretending that he did not know exactly where to go.

  They went up the stairs and entered the offices of Dār al-Gund. The clerks sent him curious glances, but given his worn appearance, their interest quickly waned. The servant motioned for Jawad to wait as he knocked on the door to Tibert’s study. After a brief exchange, Jawad was silently invited to step inside.

  Renardine was there as well; she smelled like smoke. Jawad repressed the anger that flared up inside of him, turning his attention towards Tibert. “You set the district on fire,” he stated flatly once the door was closed behind him.

  “Because you were late,” the merchant said. “Now you show up, brazen and arrogant, announcing yourself at our doorstep.”

  “Oddly conspicious for a thief,” Renardine added.

  Jawad stared at the pair who had come to his city, acting as conquerors when they should be beggars. “I was detained by al-Badawi’s enemies. I have escaped their custody and will return to al-Badawi presently. What I have suffered on his behalf should strengthen his trust in me.”

  “Appearing at our house will erode that,” Renardine snorted.

  “Thanks to my involuntary stay elsewhere, al-Badawi has no knowledge of my current whereabouts. I can assure you that he is oblivious of my presence here,” Jawad said sharply.

  “Why exactly are you here?” Tibert stared at the thief with discerning eyes.

  “Since our plan failed, I thought we might come up with another way –”

  “You’re alive and, as you c
laim, still in al-Badawi’s trust. The purple dye only just arrived, and given what Dār al-Allawn suffered today, they will be in disarray for a while.” Tibert kept his gaze on Jawad. “We have time to complete the plan.”

  “But – I have no idea where the bloody cargo is,” Jawad objected.

  “A resourceful thief such as you can find out. You have free access to al-Badawi’s house, do you not?”

  He did not, but best to keep that to himself. Jawad was beginning to see where this was going. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Any merchant worth his salt keeps meticulous records. Somewhere in al-Badawi’s ledgers, it will say where the jars of dye are stored. Or one of his trusted servants will know. You will find out and tell us,” the northerner demanded, “including any precautions taken to protect the cargo. We – that is, Renardine and her men – will steal it. Once you tell us what we need to know, your part in this is over.”

  Jawad considered introducing Tibert to the Master; they would make excellent friends. “I run all the risks, and you reap the rewards?” Time to play greedy. “What’s in it for me?”

  “Once you return to us with the information, you will be paid handsomely for your help.”

  With a knife between the ribs, Jawad guessed. He knew that in their eyes, his status would soon change from useful henchman to loose end. He smiled. “I expect nothing less. We’ll have to meet elsewhere, of course.” Jawad had no doubt that if he walked into Dār al-Gund again, he would never walk out.

  “Why?” asked Renardine sharply.

  He looked at her with a superior attitude. “Once I return to al-Badawi, he’ll have me followed again, surely. It’s too risky. There’s a tavern by the western docks called the Salty Mug. I’ll meet you there the day after tomorrow, at noon.”

  “Fine,” Tibert agreed. “But your payment will wait until the job is done.”

  “I’ll need some silver for now to get the information,” Jawad claimed. It was partly true; he could desperately use some coin, albeit for other purposes. “I have people to bribe, hands to grease, doors to unlock, eyes to close. You get the idea.”