The Prince of Cats

by D E Olesen

  Nothing distinguished the Salty Mug from any of its competitors; it served the same swill for the same price as anywhere else on the docks. Jawad was primarily fond of it because it had an easily accessible back door, allowing for a hasty exit into the alley behind.

  Entering, Jawad saw the expected rabble of sailors, cutthroats, day-labourers, drunks, and the like. Every kind of questionable, suspect, or immoral deviant was represented. In other words, Jawad felt at home. He had a few coins left from the donations given by Tibert and Amal, and prices followed quality when it came to the ale, meaning he could afford barrels of it. He settled for just one tankard, finding a spot by the wall to lean against while he waited.

  The trick was to be inconspicuous in these situations. Any time of the day, there would be someone looking for a brawl, and being alone served as a good invitation for drunken fools to start a fight. Jawad had plenty of practice to ensure people’s gazes passed him by; his small stature gave him a good advantage as well. He had traded Salah’s expensive cloak to a mamluk, one of the few he was not on bad terms with, getting an ordinary cape made from linen and some good will in the bargain. With the winter wind finding its way through many cracks in the buildings, Jawad kept his cloak huddled around him while pretending to sip on his mug of barley water.

  Shortly after noon, Renardine appeared. Her cloak and cap hid most of her distinctive features, and Jawad might not have recognised her at first if he had not been expecting her. As she walked through the tavern, the other patrons shied away on instinct, keeping out of her path. Her posture and gait betrayed her to be a warrior, and she radiated a sense of danger. The long daggers in her belt were probably a factor as well, Jawad mused. He guessed they were made from Nordsteel, meaning they would go through bone as easily as cutting up a cucumber. He had no doubt they had already been used for that purpose more than once.

  Jawad banished the image of her knives carving up his flesh and sent her a smile. “Well met, Renardine.”

  “Enough pleasantries,” she sneered. “Tell me what I need to know.”

  “Let’s not rush into it. Get yourself a drink first,” he suggested.

  She almost spat in his face. “As if I want to poison myself.”

  He shot her a look. “You think I’m holding this mug to please my tongue? We’re in a public house, Renardine.” He glanced around at the other patrons, drinking, talking, and gambling. “Blend in.”

  She scoffed but relented, getting herself a tap of the local brew. “There,” she said, returning.

  “Much better. To your health,” he said, raising his cup.

  “Can we get on it with it?”

  “What about my money?” Always act greedy.

  “You’ll get it once the job is done,” she said irritated. “If your information is false, you won’t see a single coin.”

  “How much?”

  “One crown for each jar.”

  Jawad’s eyebrows rose up involuntarily. He had never seen a single gold coin in his life, much less thirty-six. They really had a low opinion of his intelligence. “Nice,” he replied with a dumb grin. No need to make them question that opinion.

  “So? Spit it out.”

  “Al-Badawi has a serai by the Goat.”

  “The goat?”

  “The Gate of the Goat,” Jawad explained. These ajam, he sighed internally.

  “Yes, I know it.”

  “The dye is in the warehouse next to it. It’s been sold already, and they’re moving it tomorrow. Tonight’s your chance.”

  “Guards?”

  “None outside to avoid attention, but five guards inside.”

  “Patrols?”

  “Several after sunset, about every half hour. The guard changes one hour before midnight, however, keeping them from sending out the next patrol until after midnight.”

  “Good.” She somehow managed to sneer the word like an insult. “Tomorrow, you can come by the compound. Your gold will be ready.”

  They were really keen on sticking that knife in between his shoulder blades. “I can’t wait.” He emphasised his words with another dumb grin.

  Renardine put her untouched ale on the nearby counter, where it was quickly grasped with both hands by a drunk, and she left without further words. Shortly after, another customer got up and left as well. Jawad reasoned that was one of al-Badawi’s spies, keeping watch of her. There was another spy in the tavern shadowing Jawad, no doubt, but the thief preferred to be alone for his next appointment. As far as Jawad could tell, al-Badawi had no knowledge that the Black Teeth were involved in this, and it was best to keep it that way.

  He left his own drink with the drunkard, who by now was having the best day of his life, and slipped out through the back door. As soon as it closed behind him, Jawad hurried forward to turn the first corner. He made a few more turns, just to be safe, into the winding streets.

  Having lost his shadow, Jawad walked back to the docks, which let him gain his bearings. His final dealings with Dār al-Gund done, he moved towards the city proper, entering the medinas ruled over by the Black Teeth.

  ~~~~

  Jawad stood outside the Broken Teeth, remembering vividly his last visit to this place. It was not long past noon, and the sun was beating down on him, yet he felt no urge to step inside. His pains had mostly lessened; his missing toe nails were doing their best to grow back, his ribs no longer protested with each breath taken, and his left fingers only reported a dull ache. Still, it was enough to remind him. It made him apprehensive to step inside, in case he had miscalculated the Black Teeth’s intentions; he had no desire to revisit the rack. More than that, all his schemes, all his suffering would have been for naught if he were not allowed to leave that wretched lair of society’s scum.

  With a deep breath and his broken hand inside his tunic, Jawad stepped inside.

  He did not bother with buying a drink or trying to blend in. He was expected by the regulars of the establishment, after all. He was almost surprised when nothing happened as he crossed the threshold. Nobody took immediate notice of him, he was not clubbed in the back of his head, the sky did not fall. Everyone continued drinking and laughing as before.

  Hashim sat at his usual table with his brutes. The table had dried blood upon it and a severed finger. Nobody seemed to be screaming or clutching a bloody stump on their hand, so Jawad assumed it was business from last night. Why exactly the finger was still left out on the table, he had no idea. Perhaps as a sign of intimidation or just an example of the lax cleaning in this place. Either was equally possible.

  Jawad wove in and out of the crowd to reach the table. Hashim looked up at him, playing with a knife; by the blood on it, it had been used for finger severing. “Jawad, my dear friend. Give him a seat!” A happy smile filled Hashim’s face.

  Someone stood up, putting a heavy hand on Jawad’s shoulder. Sitting down, the thief wrested himself out of the grip. “I see you have a new crew. Do they know what happened to the last one?”

  Hashim’s features became twisted in rage until his eyes fell on Jawad’s left hand inside his tunic. “How’s your hand?” he asked with a grin.

  “It’ll be fine soon enough. Unlike your fuckneedle.”

  Nervous snickering could be heard around the table until Hashim slammed one hand down, making the finger roll onto the ground. “You fucking armpit!” he roared, causing a few glances to be exchanged. “I’ll fucking grind you to dust and sniff you for breakfast!”

  Jawad noticed with satisfaction that despite his threats, the volatile Hashim had not made any move to grab him. “You’ll have to wait until you’ve heard me out. The Master wouldn’t like me dead until my work for him is done.” As he spoke, tremors of pain coursed through his hand inside his tunic.

  Hashim’s rage faltered. Jawad assumed that the Master had not told Hashim about the fabled ruby rumoured to be in al-Badawi’s possession; sharing such knowledge did not inspire loyalty in a gang of thieves. However, Jawad also assumed that the Master�
��s greed meant he wanted Jawad alive and well in order to bring him that ruby, and he had given orders to Hashim to that effect. While insulting the big oaf had its own merits, goading him was Jawad’s way of testing his assumptions. Hashim, as impotent as Jawad’s nickname suggested, stared at him with unbridled malice. “Get to it.”

  “The mark is in the warehouse next to the serai owned by al-Badawi, near the Goat. All the jars.”

  “What’s the protection?” Despite his numerous character flaws, Hashim was a professional when it came to criminal activities.

  “Five guards inside. Nobody outside to avoid attention.”

  “Patrols?”

  “There’s one every half hour after sunset. They change guards before midnight, so you got a gap about half an hour before until half an hour later. I trust you can deduce the implication.”

  Hashim scowled. “You can trust my fist down your throat.”

  “One last thing. The dye has already been sold, and the mark is being moved tomorrow. Tonight’s your only chance.” Hashim nodded to one of his lackeys, who took off to begin the initial scouting of the area, escape routes, and everything else involved in a successful theft. “Your company’s been a pleasure as always,” Jawad continued, standing up.

  The heavy hand from before forced him back into his seat. “You’re not going anywhere,” Hashim smiled. “You’re staying right here until this is all done.”

  Fuck. “Brilliant idea,” Jawad snarled, ignoring the pain from his damaged hand. “While al-Badawi loses his most precious goods, I’ll be out of his sight. There’s no way that would make me look suspicious.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Hashim claimed with a casual voice. “You didn’t think I’d let you skulk around freely while I trust your information a second time.” He canted like a bird to stare at Jawad.

  “Great. Once the Master is done with me on the rack, you’ll be next after I explain how you fucked up my position in al-Badawi’s house.”

  “Don’t you fucking dare,” Hashim warned him.

  “The Master needs me inside al-Badawi’s palace. If I’m absent tonight, they’ll never let me back in.” He stared at Hashim in challenge, playing on his fear of the Master.

  The cutthroat stared back. Jawad had to bite down on his lip; his left fingers inside his tunic were cramping, sending tremors of pain through him. Finally, Hashim’s mouth curled upwards in a carefree smile. He gave a small nod, and the hand on Jawad’s shoulder was removed.

  “Until next time,” Jawad said, getting up. All his instincts screamed at him to run, and he had to force himself to maintain a slow pace as he turned his back to Hashim and walked away.

  Once outside, Jawad finally released his damaged fingers inside his tunic from their grip on Ishak’s flasks of poison. If the Teeth had refused to let him leave, Jawad’s plan had been to hurl a fistful of corrosive liquid into Hashim’s face and make a run for it in the ensuing confusion. A paltry escape plan at best. Jawad dearly wanted to promise himself that he would never again put his head in the lion’s jaws this way, but given the night ahead of him, he knew such a promise would be empty.

  ~~~~

  With his visit to the Broken Tooth completed, Jawad decided to see to an old acquaintance while he was still able to walk around the southern medinas freely. Reaching his destination, he crossed the open square quickly to enter the small shrine to Elat. He had a few coins left after his latest expenses, and all of them were left behind on the altar. There were a thousand ways to get more silver, but the luck of the goddess was priceless to have on his side.

  “Please,” he prayed, kneeling and with one hand on the foot of the statue. “I am so close.”

  There was no response from the statue, nor did Jawad expect one. Elat did not favour those who needed her to solve their problems, but those who took initiative. It was too late to pray for her aid when something had gone wrong and you needed it; you made sure to be on her good side before any venture, so luck was on your side when necessary.

  Having made all the preparations he could, Jawad got on his feet and left.

  21. The Shortest Day

  The afternoon was still young, and Jawad saw no reason to return to al-Badawi’s house just to twiddle his spear. Given the grand procession of people that had left the palace this morning, it was obvious where entertainment was to be found for the day. Whistling, Jawad set a course towards the Kabir’s palace.

  A friendly cart driver let Jawad spare his feet, and two hours later, he found himself before the residence of Alcázar’s ruler. It was a place said to contain fabulous wealth, and Jawad could tell that it dwarfed al-Badawi’s palace in size. Every thief in Alcázar dreamed of emptying its treasures. Jawad had no such plans at present, but today was a unique opportunity to get a glance inside, and he had no intentions of wasting it.

  Getting past the outer gates was an easy affair. There was a multitude of servants moving in and out for the ring ceremony, and Jawad simply joined their columns; the guards were not paying much attention except to keep an eye out for potential beggars.

  Once inside the courtyard, Jawad let his eyes gaze in every direction. It was completely walled off, limiting access to the grounds. Only the stables were placed here; the remainder of the complex lay behind the gate to the palace itself or the smaller orchard doors. He was trying to ascertain the guards’ line of sight when a voice faintly familiar called out to him. “Jawad!”

  The thief turned around, incredulity slowly building up inside of him. “Sidi,” he replied respectfully while wondering how Faisal al-Musharaf had such an uncanny ability to spot him.

  “It is Jawad, is it not?” The young nobleman dismounted elegantly from his magnificent stallion that looked worthy to be the steed of a jinni.

  Jawad bowed slightly. “Yes, sidi. I am honoured you remember.” He was actually annoyed, but it would not do to admit that. He noticed in passing that Faisal was wearing a silver necklace set with emeralds, good craftsmanship and worth some eighty birds easily.

  “You are seeking your master, no doubt? Most excellent, I should like to pay my respects. Will you walk with me?”

  Jawad admired how sincerely Faisal made the command sound like a request as if Jawad had any choice. “Of course, sidi.” They walked up the stairs to enter the palace. Above the entrance were carved the words of the poet. Those to whom is given wealth and bountiful land, know that swiftly gained is swiftly lost by fate’s hand. Jawad glanced at the guards; in the presence of an heir to one of the Hundred Houses, they did not even question whether to let him pass.

  “Salah spoke to me about you, briefly, and I wanted to ask more,” Faisal explained.

  Shit. “I am at your disposal, sidi.”

  “He told me that your services to Dār al-Allawn were temporary in nature.”

  “That is true. I do not expect to find myself employed by them tomorrow.”

  “I did not realise it was so soon!” Faisal exclaimed.

  Every time his companion spoke, Jawad tried to glance around and take as much in without making it obvious. “It is, sidi,” he replied in absentminded fashion. Vaults rose above him stretching towards the sky. Pillars thicker than the head of an ox lined the halls, and the walls were covered in decorations. Each step Jawad took impressed upon him that more wealth was found in this place than he ever imagined could exist.

  “Would you consider working for Dār al-Imāra now that your contract is at an end?”

  “What?” Jawad blurted out.

  Faisal laughed. “There is much you could teach the men we train about protecting against intruders. I have already discussed it with my father, who agreed it was an excellent idea.”

  “I am flattered, sidi,” Jawad said, mostly to buy time. Faisal might as well have sapped him in the head. The fact that anyone would earnestly offer him a respectable position and pay him coin for his knowledge on how to obtain coin in disrespectable ways – it felt almost perverse.

  “You would be paid eight sil
ver a day, and you could have accommodations at our house if you wish.”

  Thoughts spun around Jawad’s head. With such earnings, he could buy his own copper ring soon enough and be a genuine citizen of Alcázar, free to go where he pleased. The Black Teeth would never know to look for him at Dār al-Imāra, and a simple disguise would take him far. He would have the life that all hojon of Almudaina dreamt of, but only few ever attained.

  It also meant that he would live in the household of Faisal, husband of Zaida, and be made aware of this every day. “Your offer is very kind, sidi, and it pains me to decline that kindness.” Jawad was a little surprised to realise he meant this. Having known it so rarely through all his life, Jawad appreciated kindness more than any other virtue.

  Faisal simply smiled in acceptance. “As you wish. Should you change your mind, seek me out.”

  “You are most kind, sidi,” Jawad told him, meaning every word.

  They both fell quiet as they reached the audience hall. It was crowded with spectators, but Faisal walked through confidently, cutting a path that Jawad could follow. Pushing forward, the thief took in the sight in every direction. He gazed upwards as the roof domed above him. Countless stars had been decorated upon the vaulted ceiling, and by some trick of the light, they seemed to shine. Ahead of him on the sarīr sat the Kabir, the ruler of Alcázar. His clothing was made from silk, his seat from velvet, and a sapphire the size of a man’s fist was placed upon his brow. In addition, countless riches lay scattered before his feet. Chests bursting with gold and silver, statues carved from finest marble by the greatest artisans, bolts of silk, flasks of incense, swords made from Nordsteel, and more.

  Jawad thought his eyes would fall out. He had never seen such wealth gathered in one place. “I see the Ten have already given their gifts,” Faisal remarked casually. It took Jawad a moment to comprehend his words. All the riches before his eyes were tribute paid by the merchant houses of Alcázar. First the members of the Council of Ten, wearers of golden rings; their offering had to be proportionate to their status.