The Prince of Cats

by D E Olesen

  Some foul curse was undoubtedly on Salah’s lips, but the door opened to reveal Zaida’s servant behind it. “Stay here,” he impressed on Jawad and strode away.

  “Would you enquire with your mistress whether she would deign to share tea with me tonight?” Jawad asked of Zaida’s servant. The young woman nodded mutely and disappeared. Moments later, she returned and gestured for Jawad to step inside.

  The parlour looked as it had done on his previous visits, whereas Jawad did not; for one, he was not bleeding all over the rug. Zaida appeared from one of the adjoining chambers. Ink stains on her fingertips revealed what she had been doing before Jawad interrupted her. Her appearance was otherwise flawless, and knowing what the ink on her hands represented, Jawad could not conceive of it as a fault either.

  “Master Jawad?”

  He blinked, realising he had been adrift in his thought. He placed the tray on the small table between two sofas; once Zaida was seated on one, he took the other. “Thanks, I’ll do it,” he told the servant girl and poured tea into a new cup for Zaida.

  “I have already had my evening brew, but I suppose there is always room for a second,” Zaida smiled as she accepted her cup. “Thank you, Juana, you may retire.” The girl did so.

  “To your health, sayidaty.”

  “And yours.” She took a sip. “I did not expect this visit.”

  He kept his eyes on her as she drank. “Understandable. I was discourteous to you, sayidaty, and I apologise. You have been nothing but gracious towards me.”

  “You are too harsh on yourself, Master Jawad. If anyone should apologise, it must be me. You have been through such hardships, I can scarcely imagine half of them. That I should cast any judgement upon you…” She bit her lip. “I am ashamed of myself.”

  “Sayidaty, please do not be.” Silence took hold of the room. “But do accept my sincere congratulations upon your engagement,” Jawad finally said. “Faisal al-Musharaf is a man of many virtues.”

  “Thank you.” She bowed her head. “You speak as if you know him well.”

  “I have met him upon occasion, such as today, in fact.”

  “At the Kabir’s palace.” She nodded. “Did he have a proposal for you?”

  He smiled a bit, looking at her. “Sayidaty, how did you know?”

  “Oh.” She blushed slightly. “I knew that Salah had spoken to him of you, so I merely did the same.”

  He could not help but grin. “What a fortunate man I am, to have such virtuous tongues wagging on my behalf!”

  “Master Jawad, please,” she reproached him. “Some decorum, I must insist.” Her smile spoke against her words before her voice grew serious. “How did you reply to the proposal?”

  “I requested some time to consider it. It was unexpected, to say the least.”

  “It seems a good idea to me,” she claimed, sounding almost casual in her appraisal. “Your skills would be put to use, and you would be paid and treated well.”

  “You are entirely right.”

  “If I am to be mistress of Dār al-Imāra, it would also allow us the opportunity to continue our conversations.”

  And therein lay the splinter. “All of which are part of my considerations, I assure you.”

  “You have not touched your tea.”

  With a smile, he raised his cup to his lips, watching her do the same. He waited until she had finished drinking, glancing at the water clock in her parlour. Less than an hour until midnight. “Sayidaty, the evening is passing. There is something I should wish to tell you.”

  She turned her dark eyes on him, and he felt spellbound for a moment. “Yes?”

  He took a deep breath. “You told me of your mother once. Forgive me for mentioning this topic, as I know it must pain you. I only do so that I may tell you now what I should have said then.”

  “What is it?”

  “I had two brothers once. Hakim, older than me, and Kateb, younger.” She did not interrupt, but simply looked at him as he spoke, and he had to glance away to avoid her gaze. “Hakim died when we were children, and it was my fault. I have always blamed others, I do even now, but when I am alone with my thoughts, they whisper the truth to me. My brother’s blood is on my hands.”

  “Jawad.” Her voice made him look at her, and he did not know how he felt seeing the pity in her eyes. “How old were you?”

  “I do not know my own age even now, but I suspect I was four or five. Maybe six.”

  “Jawad, I do not know what happened, but if you were a child, you are not responsible for what happened to your brother.”

  “That is why I am telling you this, Zaida. You are not a thief. You did not steal your mother’s life.” She looked as if he had slapped her across the face. “You blame yourself, same as I do. This guilt is a lock upon you, weighing you down. I hope one day you find the key that will set you free.”

  She simply stared at him, and he was empty of words.

  Salah came through the door. “Jawad,” he spoke, gaining the latter’s attention. He nodded in the direction of the hallway.

  “Of course.” Jawad looked at Zaida. “Thank you for your company, sayidaty. I shall take no more of your time tonight.”

  “The pleasure has, as always, been entirely mine, Master Jawad. I hope it will continue to be an occurrence in my life.”

  He rose to bow before her and collect the tray. His left hand gave him some trouble, prompting Salah to step forward. “Do you need –”

  “No,” Jawad said firmly. “I have it.” He got the tray onto his claw-like hand and followed Salah, leaving behind the one jewel he could never steal.

  “You were right.” They were scarcely out in the hallway before Salah spoke in an excited manner. “A slave bought to help the gardener. Clever, as it gave him access to plenty of sharp tools. He had the black tooth, just as you described.”

  “Good.” Jawad’s focus slowly returned to the present. “Where is he now?”

  “Locked up under guard. We’ll sell him to the galleys.”

  “What about the spies watching the house?”

  “The mamluks are patrolling. The few we have.” Sudden concern appeared on Salah’s face. “We have barely any guards inside the palace or outside.”

  “Then it is good you discovered their cutthroat in time,” Jawad reassured him. “I have another favour to ask.”

  “For a thief, you do a lot of begging,” Salah growled. “What is it?”

  “I should like to have tea with al-Badawi tonight as well.”

  “Jawad, it’s close to midnight. I’m quite sure he’s had his fill if he’s even awake.” As to prove a point, Salah yawned.

  “It’s less about the tea and more about my last chance to speak to him.”

  Salah frowned. “Very well. If he’s still awake. Let’s go.”

  They moved through the marbled hallways of the harāmlik. Jawad wondered how long it took to live in such surroundings before you became inured to their beauty. Even now with so many feelings and thoughts coursing through him, he could not help but notice it.

  A lamp burned in al-Badawi’s private study. “I’ll be out here in the parlour,” Salah told Jawad. “Leave the door open. Also, I’m sorry, but I have to search you.” Salah’s hands deftly combed Jawad and his clothing; if he had been hiding the smallest weapon, Salah would have found it. “Go ahead.” The warrior adjusted his sword belt, yawned again, and sat down on the sofa outside the office.

  Jawad crossed the threshold. The merchant barely looked up from his books. “Do not disturb me.”

  “I bring you tea, effendi.”

  Hearing his voice, al-Badawi raised his eyes. “What are you doing here? Where is Salah?”

  “He is outside, keeping watch.”

  “Go join him then. I wish to be alone.”

  Jawad put the tray down on a drawer. “Effendi, may we speak?”

  “What could we possibly have to talk about?”

  “The future. Tonight is a fateful night, and tomorrow
will look entirely different.” Jawad looked at the water clock in the study; it was just past midnight.

  Al-Badawi put down the quill in his hands. “Go on, amuse me.”

  “I have suffered a great deal, effendi, to make tonight happen.” He raised his left hand. It was impossible to tell how much dexterity he would ever regain. “More than you could know.”

  The merchant scoffed. “You think I care? I don’t even remember your name, thief. You are no more than a slave to me. You’re even less, since a slave has value. You’re alhajin, you’re offal thrown onto the street that did not have the good sense to remain there and die.”

  Jawad glanced out of the room at Salah. “Is that all you see for me in my future, effendi? That I am to die?”

  “It is the fate of all men to die,” al-Badawi replied prosaically. “Some of us achieve great things until then. Others, like you, serve no purpose but to be the lowest that the greatest may be compared to you.”

  “That is how you see us? The hojon. Merely steppingstones upon your path.”

  “Merely the truth,” he all but sneered. “You have wasted enough of my time. Be gone.”

  “If something goes wrong tonight, Salah thinks you will order him to kill me,” Jawad said softly, standing by the door.

  Across the room, al-Badawi heard him. “Your time has come in any case. You know too much about my business. You think I would let you leave this house?” Scorn was evident upon him. “Salah!” he called. “Remove this pestilence.”

  “You think Salah would kill me, simply because you ordered him to?”

  “Yes,” al-Badawi replied with conviction. “Salah is loyal to a fault. Salah!” he called again.

  “It’s good I put sleeping powder in his tea, in that case,” Jawad remarked. He looked out at the sleeping Salah on the sofa; with his good hand, he slowly closed the door to the study.

  “What is this? Guards!” al-Badawi yelled, leaping to his feet. His chair fell to the floor behind him.

  “Effendi, it is no use. I put it in everyone’s tea.”

  The merchant stared at him with utter disdain. “Fine. Nobody will stand in your way. Leave, you villainous scum, and never dare to return!”

  Jawad returned his gaze, straightening his back. “Not yet, effendi. I have set many plans in motion, suffered many pains, and seen many people hurt that you and I may have this conversation, alone and undisturbed.”

  “You seek to rob me? You wish to take all that I have built?” al-Badawi raged. “Vultures and carrion worms! While my enemies surround me, you slither into my presence to exploit the moment!”

  Jawad marvelled. The merchant did not seem to understand the danger surrounding him. Quite possibly he had never been physically threatened before in his life, and he simply did not recognise what was happening. “Enemies, effendi? Pray tell, who do you think has done all this to you?”

  “Mongrels and curs,” he sneered. “The pale fiends of Dār al-Gund, aided by rabble like you and the accursed Prince! You were in their employ the whole time, you vermin! This is the work of all these abominable criminals, aided by you! Do not dare deny it!”

  Jawad stared at him with a curious expression. “Effendi, have you not yet guessed?” With a mocking smile, he gave a slight bow. “I am the Prince of Cats.”

  23. The Prince of Cats

  Al-Badawi stared at him with a stunned expression. “Impossible,” he managed to stammer.

  “Last year,” Jawad began to explain. “Your caravan never reached Surru. Its water provisions were poisoned.”

  “You can’t be.”

  “Three months before that, your ship from Gadir was set afire in the harbour, the very night it reached port and before its shipment could be unloaded.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Another two months earlier, your serai was plundered by bandits when the gate was opened for them.”

  Al-Badawi’s mouth hung open. “You’re just a petty thief, alhajin! You’re less than nothing!”

  “Yet I brought you to your knees, effendi. And I am not done.”

  “This is a trick,” the merchant claimed weakly. “You’re only here because I ordered it. I’ll have you back in the Tower immediately.”

  “The Finger?” Jawad smiled in an overbearing fashion. “As if I would ever have been so careless as to get caught during a simple break-in. Did you never wonder how news reached Salah that I knew how to find the Prince, the man you have been desperate to find? Effendi, even Elat would shake her head at such a stroke of fortune.”

  “What are you trying to say,” al-Badawi sneered as convincingly as he could.

  “You had me released from prison because I wanted it. You had me search for the Prince because I wanted it. You set your soldiers on Dār al-Gund this very night,” Jawad explained, “because I wanted it.”

  “All lies,” the merchant spouted. “Why would anyone do something so preposterous?”

  “Salah guards you well, effendi. This harāmlik is a fortress.” Jawad glanced around the room as if surveying the palace itself. “Until you let me inside. Your wealth is ruined, Azal al-Badawi, as is your house. Know that Dār al-Allawn has crumbled by my hand, the hand of Jawad al-Qasr, and that your legacy dies with you.” He stared with cold fury in his eyes upon the merchant.

  “Are you mad?” al-Badawi shrieked. “Why would you do this?”

  Jawad nodded. “It is only fitting you know why. All of this began twenty years ago on a day we both remember well, albeit for different reasons. The day your wife died, effendi.”

  “How dare you even mention her!”

  “My time here has let me piece together the story. She was pregnant, and perhaps it was a difficult pregnancy, or she went into labour early.” The merchant scowled at Jawad, who continued. “You were told the news and rode through the city like a madman, desperate to make it. But you were too late. The physician could save only one, and he chose the child over the mother.”

  “Is this another ploy?” al-Badawi fumed. “Or are you simply adding insult to injury, torturing my soul?”

  “You feel the loss keenly,” Jawad assented, nodding. “Her death is a wound that will not heal. You close your eyes, and once again you see it as if it happened only yesterday.”

  “Yes,” al-Badawi hissed. “Are you done?”

  “Sadly not, effendi. See, that very day, I was at the marketplace with my brothers. We begged, stole, and scrounged for food as we did every day. I was not many years old and often careless. A fat purse caught my eyes, and I was oblivious to the danger.”

  “Is there a point to this?”

  “My older brother Hakim always knew he had to look out for me and Kateb. He did so that day as well. As you came riding through the street with no regard for others, he pushed me out of the way.” Jawad closed his eyes; for once, he did not resist as the memory flooded his thoughts. “I recall hearing your horse, its hooves thundering against the cobbled stone. The sickening sound as it splits Hakim’s skull open. I see blood and brain spilling onto the street. His eyes are lifeless. I hear people whisper the name of al-Badawi and Dār al-Allawn, powerful names that none dare defy.” Jawad opened his eyes again, and they shone with hatred. “I remember that you did not slow down for one moment, you did not look back. You never even knew what you did, is that not true, effendi? You robbed me of what was dearest to me without even a thought to it, and tonight, I will finally return the favour.”

  A variety of emotions crossed al-Badawi’s face. “Children running in the streets, I cannot be held responsible! My wife was dying! I will not be subjected to the justice of alhajin!” he ranted.

  “For once, effendi, what you want is of no consequence. The laws and men of Alcázar cannot protect you. The justice of Almudaina has come, and it demands blood.” Jawad’s face was a stern mask, devoid of mercy.

  Al-Badawi opened the drawers of his desk, frantically searching through them. Papers, seals, wax, inkwells, and anything else but what he was searchin
g for went flying out onto the floor.

  Jawad watched, slightly amused. “It is no use, effendi.” From above the doorframe, he took out a thin, bejewelled dagger, holding it in his uninjured hand. “Some weeks ago, or has it been months? My sense of time has become clouded,” he apologised. “Regardless, some time ago your daughter was kind enough to let me enter the harāmlik, treating my wounds. Before I left, I made a thorough search of your study.”

  Al-Badawi stared at the knife in Jawad’s hands, abandoning his search. “Please,” he began to plead. His face was paler than death. “I will make you wealthier than you could ever imagine.”

  Jawad advanced upon him, weapon held ready. “I did not come tonight for wealth, effendi. I will not even steal this dagger from you. You have my word.”

  “Wait!” Al-Badawi fumbled with something underneath his clothes and pulled out a pouch hanging on a knotted leather string. “Wait! You will want this!” He reached into the pouch to extract its content and stretched out his hand. In his open palm, glistening in the light, lay a brilliant ruby. The Heart of the Sands.

  Jawad had never seen its equal. Its value was greater than he could calculate, greater than he could imagine. Taking another step closer, the jewel thief stared at the gem one last time before looking up at the merchant. “That is not yours to bargain with,” he said softly and plunged the dagger into al-Badawi’s own heart.

  His victim gasped and grabbed Jawad’s wrist with his empty hand, but already his strength was slipping away. Jawad wrestled himself free and stood as the merchant fell backwards to the floor. With the countenance of an avenging jinni, Jawad stared down upon the body. Blood trickled forth, dying al-Badawi’s clothes red.

  Jawad had never killed another person with his own hands wielding the weapon. He could tell that he had no taste for it, but in this particular case, it could not have been any other way. Al-Badawi’s empty eyes stared back at him, and Jawad felt nothing but mild contempt. There was no wrath against the dead raging inside of him now the deed was done. In a sense, al-Badawi had been nothing more than another piece in Jawad’s long scheme for revenge; unfortunately for the merchant, his role had been to die.