by D E Olesen
Tellingly, there was no water. Jawad swallowed the last splinters of the grain in his mouth; they were so dry, he decided against eating more. Instead, he made a bed as best he could with the blankets. The complete absence of light was strange; even the humblest of his previous abodes, usually the gutter, had allowed him starlight to see by. Other than that, Jawad had found himself sleeping in worse places. He was dry, not that cold, and the blankets softened the hard floor; thanking Elat for these blessings, he went to sleep.
~~~~
Jawad woke from the sound of the door being unbolted. As it opened, the dim light in the hallway revealed a shape placing a jar, a small plate, and a bucket onto the floor. The door was swiftly closed again.
Blinking, Jawad sat up and stretched his neck. He could not tell how long he had slept; it could have been a brief while, it could have been hours. Focusing on what was in front of him, he slid his hands over the floor until they reached his new possessions.
Dipping a few fingers into the jar and then his mouth, he found water. On the plate was what felt and smelled like bread; the bucket was empty, but Jawad could guess its purpose. Furthermore, it told him that he should not expect to be released in the coming hours. Accepting this, Jawad ate one quarter of the bread, took a few sips of the water, and settled up against one of the barrels.
~~~~
Jawad had known imprisonment before; he was no stranger to its constant companion, boredom. But incarceration in the Finger had been better than this, even under the threat of maiming. The fact that he was more likely to be released unscathed from this particular prison only served to made things duller. Added to that, the darkness robbed him of all his usual methods of passing time.
There were no stones in the wall to count, no straws he could arrange into shapes and use to tell himself stories. There were not even rats that might bite him in his sleep and which he could wage war against. His senses only told him two things. His surroundings were cold, and the bucket in the corner reeked.
Whenever the door opened, he tried to initiate conversation with the servant feeding him or the mamluk guarding him; neither ever responded. Failing that, he tried to figure out how long he had been imprisoned by counting the number of meals. This quickly failed as he realised he did not know if he was being feed once, twice, or thrice a day; he could not even tell if he was being fed on a strict schedule, or simply when someone remembered him. Slowly, Jawad began to lose his sense of time.
~~~~
When twelve meals had passed, he tried to shout through the door, hoping for anyone to hear him. He yelled questions about how long he would be in here, but there was no response. He asked who was on the other side. None replied. In the end, he begged for any kind of answer, a simple word would do. There was only silence. He banged on the door several times. Nothing happened. He could not even tell if someone was permanently standing outside his cell, guarding him, or if the mamluk was only there when the door was opened to feed him. If the latter was the case, he was not even being ignored, he was shouting at an empty corridor. Despairing, he began talking directly to the door; at least he knew it was real.
After fifteen meals, he became silent again. This was not because his state of mind had improved; on the contrary, he was convinced that he heard the sound of little paws scurrying around him, and he stayed quiet to locate the vermin. Every time he was certain, he lunged forward and caught only air between his hands.
Between his twenty-first and twenty-second meal, he resumed chewing on the kernels of grain in the barrels. His jaw soon complained, but he resolutely continued; the physical ache kept the sounds at bay.
Every so often, he tried pleading with the servant bringing him food. He could not tell if his prayers even elicited the slightest twinge of sympathy; when the door opened, the dim light of the outside world seared his eyes, and he saw only the dark shape of someone replacing his plate and his jar.
When his count of meal times reached thirty, he began to consider escape. He could not risk that they would keep him here until his final breath. He could scarcely remember the specifics of why he was locked away in the first place; likewise, he could not recall the conditions for when he might be released. Even if he had been able to, it would not matter. Time was gone; if he was to stay here for a week, a month, or a year was immaterial. Any duration would be an eternity now that time had ceased to pass.
He imagined it in his head, over and over again. The door would open, and he would launch himself forward, pushing the servant into the mamluk standing behind, and rush past both of them to freedom.
The sound of the door being unbolted caught him by surprise; before he could gather his wits, his food and water had been deposited and the door closed again. His opportunity had arrived and left again before he knew it.
He stared at where he knew the door was, even though he could not see it. It took a moment before tears began streaming down his face, and he sobbed without any pretence of holding back.
When his tears ran out, his mind grew clearer. He grabbed some grain to chew on, helping to reinforce the effect. Thoughts began to resurface that he had forgotten many mealtimes ago. He remembered that it was paramount he endured this imprisonment; he would raise suspicion otherwise. This led him to recall that he was in the palace of al-Badawi and that he was a thief; since he had to avoid suspicion, it stood to reason that he had not yet actually been caught doing anything wrong.
Jawad continued down this chain of thoughts, working backwards. He had been imprisoned in the Finger before arriving at this estate. Before that, he had a plan, and the plan was – he realised that he had been saying his thoughts out loud. He clamped his mouth shut, pressing both hands on top for good measure.
He stared at where the door was. It was impossible anyone could have heard him; besides, he had said nothing to incriminate himself. But he was slipping. Instead, he stood up. With some difficulty, he hauled the barrels of grain into the middle of the room. It was an eerie feeling to use his arms for the first time in however long he had been imprisoned.
Once the barrels were in place, there was just enough space that he could walk in circles around the room. Doing so, Jawad kept himself physically active while returning to his train of thought. Bit by bit, all of it returned to him. When his thirty-second meal was served, the thief was calm and composed.
~~~~
Jawad eventually stopped counting his meals; it did not allow him to measure time accurately and only gave him something to obsess about. Instead, he focused on his memories, one at a time, dragging each of them forward in his mind and inspecting every detail he could remember. He began as early as possible and continued according to when each had been made; if he was reminded of a later memory, he would push it away until its time came.
His earliest experiences were of Almudaina, living inside its labyrinth with his younger and older brother. Entering the city searching for scraps of food. Begging or stealing coin, depending on the situation. Forced to hand over most of their take to older boys. Fights and beatings, usually the former turning into the latter. The first time he could recite ‘Time and Season’ at the madrasa, how Hasief had given him two figs as a reward, and the look on Kateb’s face when Jawad gave him a whole fig to eat while Jawad and Hakim shared the other.
Eventually, he reached the memory that had been lurking in his mind all along. On most days, Jawad pushed it away; especially when the thrill of his thieving made the blood rush through his body, he felt free, running on instinct. He lived for those moments when he could escape the tyranny of his own mind. Now, there was nothing to distract him. It demanded his full attention, and he had no recourse but to relive every moment of his past.
Every detail was vivid in his mind. Approaching his mark. Sticking out his small fingers holding the jagged piece of glass to cut the purse strings. Hakim’s warning shout that came too late. The rider galloping through the market. Realising he was in the rider’s path, his brother pushing him aside, the sickeni
ng sound of Hakim’s skull breaking under thunderous hooves – Jawad gasped for breath. Terror flickered across his expression in the darkness briefly. It took him a moment to realise where he was. When he did, he inhaled and exhaled slowly. Composing himself, he let that particular memory sink to the back of his mind like the others. When he was ready, he continued on his inner journey.
~~~~
When the door opened, Jawad paid it no heed at first; he only realised something was amiss when it remained open. Looking at the shape illuminated by the faint light from outside, he narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. The person was taller and larger than any of the servants Jawad had seen, even bigger than the mamluks. It took him a moment to speak the name; his tongue felt awkward in his mouth, a muscle that had not been used for days. “Salah.”
“You’re free.” The warrior extended his hand, helping Jawad to stand. Salah almost recoiled as the thief came close to him. “Let’s get you to the baths.” There was kindness in Salah’s voice, and Jawad almost trembled at the sound; he had forgotten the very concept even existed. He had to pinch himself to focus on the pain and keep his demeanour blank. With one hand on Salah’s shoulder for support and guidance, Jawad followed him out of his cell.
7. Friends in Low Places
Jawad had become inured to his own smell, and his clothes stuck to him like a second layer of skin, making him indifferent to their condition. Nonetheless, he trusted Salah’s judgement that he was in need of a good scrub. Docile as a lamb, he let the big man lead him through the palace. He was so dazed by his recent confinement, it took him a while to notice that Salah was not leading him to the servants’ quarters.
After a long walk, they stopped in front of a large, sunken pool. Standing close, Jawad could feel the heat of the water rising up to meet him. Everything was made from white marble, reflecting sunlight from windows in the roof; the room seemed so bright, Jawad had to close his eyes. He had never seen such luxury reserved for bathing before, and he realised that he was inside the harāmlik; this had to be the private baths reserved for the palace household.
Salah took hold of his arm, leading his attention to a smaller pool nearby. “Clean yourself there first. When you are ready, soak in the hot water as you please. Everyone else has finished using the hammām for the day, so you won’t be disturbed.”
Jawad nodded a bit, his mind absent. He still had to keep his eyes almost shut to prevent the brightness of the space from overwhelming him. He glanced around cautiously; the place could best be described as a hall with pillars and numerous bodies of water. Steam only rose from some of them, indicating they had different temperatures depending on need and want.
The sound of a door closing took him by surprise; Salah had left. He was alone once more. Still a prisoner of sorts, but in more comfortable surroundings. Stripping naked, Jawad entered the cold bath.
The sensation shook him, physically and mentally. Both his senses and his mind had grown dull in the darkness. The shock of the cold water made him open his eyes fully for the first time, and he forced himself to keep them open; already, he was growing disgusted with his own weakness. In the dark, he had been so starved for the presence of another human being, for the simplest conversation, he might have told anything and everything if merely asked. It was luck, possibly in the guise of Elat, that nobody had actually asked any questions of him, which told him two things. Firstly, Al-Badawi’s suspicions of him had to have been allayed, since he had been released without further questioning; secondly, the merchant was not as clever as he pretended to be.
Using the soap and washcloth made available to him, Jawad scrubbed his time in the dark cell from his body and his mind. Of all the times he had been incarcerated or trapped somewhere, this had been the worst. But he had survived, and more importantly, so had his plan. Like metal on the anvil, he had been hammered repeatedly, his mettle tested until the impurities had been beaten away. He would continue to endure anything thrown in his path, he swore to himself as he dove under the cold water, letting it rinse dirt and soap alike from his body.
When Jawad emerged again, he dried himself and put on the clean clothes waiting for him. After that, he left the bath without even glancing at the hot pools tempting him to relax and forget his worries in the steaming water. Instead, he departed the harāmlik, taking mental notes of its design and structure as he passed through it until he reached the servants’ quarters. Finding an empty room where the sun shone brightly through the window, he lay down and fell into a deep sleep.
~~~~
The following day after a hearty breakfast, Jawad was taken by Salah into the harāmlik again, passing the guards that otherwise were sure to keep the thief out of the inner sanctum. Jawad could barely keep a smug expression from appearing on his face as they walked past the mamluks.
They continued until they reached al-Badawi’s private study. The merchant was working, sitting by a table with heaps of ledgers and documents upon it. By a small writing desk next to him sat his assistant, Dars, scribbling away. The latter raised his head and sent Jawad a brief smile, which he returned. As for al-Badawi, he did not look up or acknowledge the presence of the two men who just entered. Salah seemed accustomed to this, simply standing and waiting. Jawad stood still as well, but his eyes kept busy.
Even though this was a study, it was as richly decorated as any part of the harāmlik. The thick carpet on the floor, deftly woven to show a motif of a lion attacking a horse, would be worth some fifty silver easily. Jawad had never been much for the carpet business, though. Too cumbersome to haul away.
Some of the vases in the room would make for better spoil. They were beautifully decorated, and each would fetch at least twenty birds at the right fence, who knew to sell it on to affluent customers with expensive tastes. Sadly, Jawad’s fence was Amal, whose customers had a taste for cheap wine and bar brawls.
As the last item, Jawad’s gaze settled on the enormous portrait of al-Badawi himself, hanging behind the desk; with the actual man sitting below it, the whole scene appeared like some form of twisted mirror. Looking upon the painted al-Badawi, appearing far more handsome and imposing than he did in person, Jawad estimated its only worth to be as kindling.
Finally, al-Badawi looked up. “Leave us,” he commanded. It took Dars a moment to understand the order was directed at him; befuddled, the scribe collected his parchments and hurried out of the room.
When his assistant was gone, the merchant stood up and walked around his desk to stand before Salah and Jawad. “There has been no attempts of theft against my properties in the last weeks. Salah considers this proof of your intentions. That is why he is the servant, and I am the master. I am more sceptical,” al-Badawi declared with an overbearing smile.
Weeks. The word resounded in Jawad’s mind. He had assumed that his imprisonment in that torture chamber had lasted that long, but even so, the confirmation felt like a punch to his stomach. The fact that al-Badawi mentioned it so casually made Jawad want to pull Salah’s short sword out of its scabbard and stab the merchant repeatedly until his smug expression died. For various reasons, Jawad restrained himself; first and foremost because Salah would grab his arm and wrestle him to the ground before he could even touch the hilt of the sword.
“I will give you another chance to prove yourself.”
Jawad realised that al-Badawi was still talking. He gave a short bow. “I am happy to serve,” he lied.
“I have a task that makes use of your particular skills. Granted, since I found you in the Tower of Justice, I have my doubts about not only your trustworthiness, but your abilities as well.”
Jawad did not consider himself a violent man, but the smirk on al-Badawi’s face was begging to be punched. “I will not fail, effendi,” the thief promised.
“Good. Salah tells me that you can read.”
“I can, effendi.”
“Strange, but useful in this case. Are you familiar with the rope makers’ street?”
“I know it,” Jawad s
aid.
“North of it, you will find a large house. It is quite unmistakeable, as it is only northern savages who reside in it,” al-Badawi explained.
Jawad knew exactly which building he meant. “That should not be hard to find.”
“They are a merchant house like mine, though obviously with but a small fraction of my wealth.”
“Of course, effendi.”
“You will enter the building without being seen. In their archives, there are ledgers containing all the information about their ships and cargo arriving in the next months, much like mine.” He tapped his fingers on the books lying on his desk. “Find the ledger detailing their ships coming from Herbergja to Alcázar in the next weeks. Copy the last few pages and bring them to me,” al-Badawi bade him. “Leave no trace of your presence. Obviously, should you be caught, do not expect me to secure your release from prison a second time.”
“It will not be necessary,” Jawad claimed.
“It is summer solstice today. An important holiday for these northerners,” Salah explained. “Tonight, many of them will be in town for the night, or drunk.”
“An opportune moment,” his master added.
It dawned on Jawad that he had not been released because al-Badawi thought he had suffered enough, but because he could be put to better use, and timing demanded it be done tonight. He was careful not to let any of the emotions sparked by this knowledge come to the surface. “If that is so, I have preparations to make. I will require certain tools.”