The Prince of Cats

by D E Olesen

  “No, I have coin,” Jawad insisted. He quickly found some of the silver that he had received to purchase the tools of his craft to break into Dār al-Gund. He placed a piece in Ishak’s hand, and the alchemist seemed to calm down. “Better?”

  Ishak tried to bend the coin a few times with no luck. “Fine. Sit down.” Jawad did as told. Ishak seemed in his suspicious mood today, so the thief found it best to be pliant. “Tell me, how did this happen?”

  “Well –”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess.” Ishak frowned in contemplation while his fingers ungently prodded Jawad’s face. “You went to milk a bull. It took offence and stomped you.”

  “I got beaten up,” Jawad grumbled. “By men. With hands and feet.”

  “My story’s better,” Ishak sniffed. “You should tell that next time someone asks. I’ll let you have it for free.” He pulled up Jawad’s shirt to prod the bruises on his stomach. “Well, all ribs seem to be where they should be, and your face just got some colour. You’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks. I actually came for another purpose.”

  “Good, because this felt unnecessary. A waste of my skills.”

  “I need to procure certain – remedies from you.”

  “Remedy!” Ishak shot up and rummaged through his shelves until he found a small jar. He opened it and began applying a paste to Jawad’s face. “There.”

  “Ishak, that’s not – oh. That feels good.” Jawad had gotten used to the hot, unpleasant sensation from his face being so thoroughly battered; Ishak’s medicine cooled his skin and removed the sting, leaving him feeling normal.

  The alchemist beamed. “There you are. Good as new. Thank you for stopping by.”

  “No, Ishak, our business is not concluded. I need to buy some – elixirs from you, discreetly.”

  “Really? At such a young age, I wouldn’t have thought you needed –”

  “I mean poison!” Jawad exclaimed irritated. He quickly lowered his voice. “Sleeping powder, in fact, though some actual poison will come in useful as well.”

  The alchemist turned serious. “You lizard tooth! Should the use of such be traced back to me, my life is forfeit.”

  “Then it’s good I’ll be paying you handsomely.”

  “With that face, there’s nothing handsome about you,” Ishak retorted, returning his attention to jars and ingredients on his desk. “Go to any common apothecary and buy a sleeping draught. Use double the dose and you will have your result, killing even the heartiest of men.”

  “I need something better. Something only a master of the craft could make.”

  Reluctantly, Ishak turned his head towards the thief. Curiosity began to spread over the alchemist’s face. “How so?”

  “I need it to act slowly. As slow as possible. Preferably it will be hours from indigestion before it takes effect.”

  “That’s a problem,” Ishak told him. “The body tends to be very good at noticing it has been poisoned, hence all the dying immediately after.”

  “I see. I didn’t imagine such would be a problem for a masterful alchemist.”

  “I did not say it was impossible,” Ishak scoffed. “Merely difficult. And expensive.”

  “Can you accomplish the same with sleeping powder? I need it powerful enough to dose scores of men, yet it must be hours after they have ingested it.”

  “That’s a tough one,” Ishak mumbled. “You need it as a powder?”

  “As a draught, it would be too cumbersome. I need it easy to transport and use.”

  “That’s going to cost time for me and coin for you. I’ll require rare materials. Enough that I can experiment. It could cost hundreds of silver pieces,” Ishak warned him.

  Jawad nodded. He had expected as much. “That’s acceptable.” He pulled out a handful of coins. “To get you started. Can you begin at once? I will return with more as soon as I have it.”

  Ishak scooped up the silver. “Very well. Until you do, stay out of bullfights!”

  “You have my word.”

  ~~~~

  Leaving Ishak’s house, Jawad ventured further south. Lack of coin had been an issue from the start, and he had barely any left. He could pilfer some here and there, but it was slow and a bad use of his skills. Instead, it was time to take advantage of everything he had learned in the last few months. Treading carefully and keeping an eye out for anyone associated with the Black Teeth, Jawad went to see Amal.

  The fence immediately slammed the door. “Fuck off!” came her voice from the other side.

  “I have a mark.”

  “I don’t know who gave you a beating, but the Teeth won’t be so gentle with either of us!”

  “I’ll get you the biggest prize yet.”

  “You’ll get us both invited to the cellars of the Broken Tooth,” Amal replied. “So will you kindly fuck off?”

  “Amal, everything I’ve ever brought you is nothing in comparison to this.”

  There was a brief moment of silence. “What is it?”

  “Purple dye.” Jawad grinned at the thought. Stealing al-Badawi’s shipment would not only provide the thief with all the coin he would need; more importantly, it would bring the merchant to the brink of the ruin. The final step before Jawad’s plan could come to fruition.

  The door opened slightly. “How much? One jar?”

  Jawad’s grin grew wider. “Dozens.”

  “Fuck you and the donkey you call mother.” The door slammed shut again.

  “And I know every detail of how and where they’ll be guarded.”

  The door creaked, and Amal peered through the crack once more. “How?”

  “That’s obviously my secret. Suffice to say, I’ll be bringing you the biggest mark you’ve ever seen.”

  The fence gave him a dubious look. “You’ve never done something like this before.”

  “It’s taken me some time to manoeuvre myself into the right position. Amal, I am not asking you to risk anything. Simply have a buyer ready.”

  “When?”

  “The dye has not yet arrived in Alcázar. It’ll be some weeks before that happens, and I’ll need to get everything ready meanwhile. I’ll stop by when the time comes. Make sure you have someone lined up by then. Time will be of the essence to get the snail juice transported out of the city.”

  She glanced at him, up and down. “Don’t ever come to my door again if this proves false.”

  “Amal, I would never –” The door was shut in his face.

  ~~~~

  With cloth around his head and his face still bruised, Jawad felt sufficiently disguised to venture further into the southern medinas of Alcázar. The Black Teeth had eyes on every street corner, but they rarely ventured onto the main street that led to the southern gate; they preferred to keep their activities in the narrow alleys of the medinas. Undetected and with a smile underneath his scarf, Jawad reached the gate and passed through.

  The same pitiful sight met him as always. Almudaina, the dilapidated home of the homeless, spread out before him. Both children and adults quickly took notice of him in his new clothes, just as the last time he had come; other than the hojon, only soldiers marching out to man the fortifications further south came this way. The children were looking for what they might steal with their nimble fingers; the adults were considering if he was worth clubbing over the head and robbing.

  Jawad made sure to hurry before any decisions were made. As with his last visit, he quickly sought out Ghulam.

  “Jawad!” the latter greeted him. “Come inside.”

  The thief relaxed a little. As soon as those around saw him enter Ghulam’s hut, they knew to back off. It did not hurt either that if al-Badawi had a spy following Jawad, he would see the thief talking to dockworkers. “Well met. I believe I owe your boys a few birds.” He dropped a few coins into Ghulam’s hands, acutely aware that he had few left.

  “Much appreciated.” The gaunt man gave a wide grin, and the coins disappeared into his ragged clothing.

 
; “There’s more on the way,” Jawad added quietly. “I have work for them.”

  “Do tell.”

  “It’s a mark I have set up for later. It’ll be some weeks, but I’ll need ten of your boys. The strongest and most reliable. Make sure they keep out of trouble until then.”

  “Of course,” Ghulam promised.

  “It’s a shipment that’ll come in, so I’ll also need information from those working the docks.”

  “Easy. What’s the ship and cargo?”

  “I don’t know the ship yet,” Jawad admitted. “I’ll find out and let you know. You just make sure the boys keep a sharp eye on the cargo when the time comes.”

  “Not a problem at all,” Ghulam smiled.

  Their business done, Jawad did not linger but hurried to return inside the city. It was getting dark, which could spell trouble for him. Not from the city guard, as he carried al-Badawi’s document granting him the right to be on the streets after dark. But after nightfall, The Black Teeth ruled the southern streets of Alcázar undisputedly, and Jawad was not eager to tangle with them. Even in his disguise, Jawad breathed easier once he crossed the maswar and entered the northern part of the city. In the distance, the palace of al-Badawi beckoned for him to return.

  12. The Heart of the Sands

  When he was back inside the estate, Jawad went to find some sleep before anything else. His rhythm for rest was erratic even on his better days, thanks to his night activities, and he could feel the toll on his body of late. Seeking his bed, he fell into a deep slumber for hours. He could scarcely tell if it was day or night, morning or evening when he woke again.

  Feeling his stomach rumble, he knew where to go to receive both answers and food. “Good morning, jida,” he said with a grin as he entered the kitchen.

  The cook in the servants’ quarter was only too happy to tell him it was early afternoon while she served him a late breakfast consisting mostly of pastries, porridge, and cheese. “Eat up, boy, and stay out of trouble! I don’t want to see you down here with fresh bruises.”

  “But jida, you know this is never my fault,” he protested with an innocent expression. “I’d never do anything to deserve this treatment.”

  “If I were truly your grandmother, I’d cut out that lying tongue of yours,” she threatened while slicing an apple into bits and placing them on his plate.

  Besides thanking the old cook and praising her culinary skills, Jawad found time to help her with a few chores. Had it been last year, she would have commanded several slaves and servants, but most had been sold or dismissed. Jawad had a feeling that the old cook missed the company as much as she missed the extra hands, and he was happy to provide both.

  He did not enjoy the actual work; it was too much like honest labour for his liking. But he had never before lived in a place where food was plenty and readily available, not to mention cooked by skilled hands. That alone was worth fetching some firewood or chopping vegetables. Another advantage was unlimited access to the tea that tradition proscribed all residents of Alcázar should drink every night.

  Jawad found himself continuously hampered by his lack of access to the harāmlik; everyone of importance that he might wish to speak to was behind the large door leading to that part of the palace, and there was no possible way he could convince the guards to let him pass. Instead, when it became evening, he brought tea to the mamluks standing guard outside the harāmlik. They grinned at his bruises and showed him little courtesy even as they drank the tea he provided them with, but one of them deigned to find and bring Salah for him.

  Shortly after, the big warrior appeared. “What is it?”

  “I should like to advise the master on my findings,” Jawad explained.

  Salah glanced at the guards. “Come with me.” He entered the outer part of the palace, beckoning for Jawad to follow him. Once they were out of earshot, he spoke again. “Tell me what you’ve found. If I deem it worthy, you can tell the master as well.”

  “I’ve made some enquiries and come across a curious connection,” Jawad related. “I’ve spoken with the hojon who work the docks. Some of them are northerners by birth.”

  “Yes?”

  “They told me a strange story. In their lands, they have tales of a clever fox that outwits its enemies.”

  “That’s all?”

  Jawad smiled. “One of these enemies is called the Prince of Cats.”

  Salah frowned. “So what? That doesn’t help us.”

  “None of this is coincidental. A new merchant house appears in Alcázar, traders from the north. Their chief competition is Master al-Badawi. A string of misfortunes, robberies, and other calamities befall Dār al-Allawn as a mysterious rogue comes out of nowhere, targeting the master at every turn. A thief known only by a title taken from this northern tale.”

  “You’re saying that the Prince is not only working with the northerners, but he is in fact one of them?”

  “Exactly!” Jawad exclaimed triumphantly. “It explains his origin and his purpose. Most importantly, it confirms where to look for him.”

  “Dār al-Gund.” Salah nodded.

  “While the estate is sizeable, nearly every man there is a servant, scribe, or similar. The Prince must be someone adroit, nimble, and dexterious to pull off his feats of thievery. I am confident that with a little searching, I can learn the exact identity of the Prince,” Jawad claimed.

  Salah scratched his beard. “If so, the master will be pleased. Having a name and a face to this rogue, not to mention confirmation that he is working with the savages, will go a long way towards putting an end to Dār al-Gund’s hostilities towards us.”

  “Should we tell Master al-Badawi?”

  Salah shook his head. “Let us not raise his expectations if nothing comes of it. Better to surprise him with good results. Continue your search and return to me once you have learned the identity of our enemy.”

  Jawad gave a short nod. “Very well. I’ll infiltrate Dār al-Gund and not return until I can present the master with this knowledge. It might take some days.”

  “Good. Be careful, Jawad. These people clearly have no conscience, given the underhanded methods they employ. If you are discovered and captured, there is no telling what they might do once they have you in their power.”

  Jawad had to suppress the urge to touch the various bruises that littered his body after his treatment at the hands of al-Badawi’s mamluks, or where Salah’s fist had connected with his nose for that matter. “Of course,” Jawad simply said. “I’m the last person you need to worry about.”

  ~~~~

  After collecting the tools of his trade but before he could depart on his nocturnal mission, Jawad was intercepted while walking down a hallway. “Master Jawad!”

  He smiled; even if he had not recognised the voice, there was only one person who would address him thus. “Lady Zaida,” he spoke, turning to face her. “First day of the week. I forgot.”

  “Indeed.” Behind her, a servant trotted off to deliver a stack of parchments from Zaida’s weekly inspection of her father’s properties to Dars. “How is your face?” she asked concerned, stepping closer to inspect him in the dim light from the lamps, as if he were one of her father’s acquisitions.

  “More handsome than ever before,” Jawad said with a wry smile.

  She laughed, taking off her cloak and handing it to a servant. “Will you join me for tea?”

  Jawad was glad that the poor lighting obscured the surprise on his face. “I would like nothing more,” he replied smoothly.

  “Juana, will you serve us tea in the gardens, please?” Zaida requested.

  “Of course, sayidaty.”

  “I hope you do not mind. I have been inside dusty buildings all day. I crave some semblance of life around me,” she explained as they began moving towards their destination.

  “Of course not,” Jawad replied, adding, “only fools refrain from seeking shade of garden.”

  “Soft the heart divines what toil and sun w
ould harden,” Zaida continued, finishing the quote. “What manner of thief is familiar with al-Tayir?”

  “The kind who had a good teacher,” Jawad replied, sending a friendly thought to Hasief and his madrasa.

  “I really must stop underestimating you, Master Jawad.”

  “On the contrary. If everyone stopped underestimating thieves, we’d never get our hands on anything again.”

  “I have never met anyone so brazen about their illicit activities,” she admitted.

  The way she said ‘illicit’ sent a brief shiver through him; thankfully, walking half a step behind her, she did not notice. “Do you often have tea and conversation with criminals, sayidaty?”

  She slapped his arm, but not with ill intent. “Brazen. There is no other word for it.” They stepped through the doors to enter the orchard; the sweet scent of ripe fruit engulfed them, and Zaida inhaled and exhaled with delight. “Please, Master Jawad, have a seat.” He did as she bade him while she took a chair opposite.

  They sat under the shade of an olive tree, and Jawad extended one hand to pluck one, looking at it. “Your ancestors lived in the desert, did they not?”

  She nodded. “Thus our name of al-Badawi.”

  “Little wonder that they chose to surround themselves with such growth,” Jawad remarked, glancing at the lush garden and throwing the olive away. “Yet I am struck by an amusing contradiction.”

  “Pray tell.”

  “This garden provides fruit of every kind, and all of them are sweet and succulent. Trust me, I know,” he added with a grin. “To the people of the desert, this place is an oasis, a dream made true.”

  “And?”

  “Yet the sweetest fruit I ever tasted,” Jawad continued, “was in the desert where I stumbled upon a tree bearing wild olives. I ate my fill, and I have never had a meal so satisfying before or after.”

  She reached up to pluck an olive herself; in its current state, it was hardly edible. “What you are saying is that the value of something lies not in itself, but in our needs and wants.”