The Prince of Cats

by D E Olesen

  “Sayidaty, such consideration is for poets. I was just talking about olives,” he remarked prosaically, making her smile. “That said, I agree with your wise words. What value does gold have except the value we ascribe to it? It cannot satisfy hunger, shield us from heat and cold, or cure our ailments. To the dying man, a diamond is but a pebble.”

  “That reminds me of something Salah told me. I think I asked you about this before.”

  “Yes?”

  “He tells me that you are a jewel thief by specialty.”

  “I have that affinity,” Jawad admitted. “It seems good sense to me. Steal what is smallest yet most valuable. Far more practical than lugging around crates or jars.”

  “Would you steal from me?”

  “You rarely seem to wear jewellery except for those earrings, Lady Pearl,” he smiled, looking at the pearls she had by either ear. “Since they obviously hold sentimental value to you far beyond their price, it feels cruel to rob you of them.”

  She gave him a surprised look. “How do you know?”

  “Pearls lose their lustre over time.” He narrowed his eyes to look more closely. “I would say your ear rings are older than both you and me. Your father would not give you old jewellery as a present, hence they must be family heirlooms.”

  “My mother’s,” Zaida confirmed. “My father gave them to her at their wedding, I am told. He has sold the rest of her jewellery, but I kept these.”

  “I see their importance.”

  “Sometimes it feels strange,” she confessed. “You see, I never knew her. She died as I was born. Salah told me what the physician had said,” she related. “One life was needed to save the other. He chose mine.”

  “Your father?”

  “The physician. As I have heard the story, my father was elsewhere when my mother went into labour. He arrived too late. The decision had been made, even if my father would have chosen differently.”

  “I cannot imagine that,” Jawad said in a neutral voice.

  “He loved my mother dearly, I am told. I think that was the problem. Had I been a son, I could at least have continued his legacy. Instead, he has a daughter whose very likeness reminds him of what I stole from him.”

  “Sayidaty, you cannot blame –”

  “We’re both thieves, it seems.” Zaida smiled ruefully. Before either could speak again, the servant appeared, placing cups on the table between them and pouring the tea. The lady and the thief sat in silence, neither looking at each other. “Thank you. That is all,” Zaida told the girl, who left the pot and made herself scarce.

  Jawad took a sip of his cup. “I’ll say this for your father. He buys damned good tea.”

  Laughter, either anxious or relieved, was heard from Zaida. “He does. It’s the one thing that can be relied upon here. Every single person in this household would drink it from morning till night if allowed.”

  “Perhaps that should be his trade instead of dye,” Jawad remarked.

  “Perhaps. My great-grandfather traded mostly in horses, I believe. It was my grandfather who turned al-Badawi into Dār al-Allawn. Before that, we supplied the finest horses of the desert to the Kabir’s court.”

  “So your ties to the desert are more than just a name.”

  “Indeed. It is still an important part of our history. You would find this interesting, in fact, as our story revolves around a jewel.”

  “Indeed? Pray continue, sayidaty,” Jawad asked, making himself comfortable with his tea.

  “It is said that long before we came to Alcázar, when my ancestors still dwelt in the desert, their herds of sheep were troubled by a predator,” Zaida began to tell. “Each night, a lamb would go missing from their flocks, leaving only a trail of blood. The elders were bewildered at what beast could have such hunger to seek new prey each night, and some thought it was a whole pack of wolves or lions. But during the day, they scouted and found no signs, and they kept such close watch at night, it was impossible to imagine more than one predator was at work.”

  Jawad smiled, enjoying her presence as much as the story, and did nothing else that might disturb her. “Soon, the tribe was growing desperate,” Zaida continued. “They would be without lambs entirely, and their herds would dwindle until they starved. One of the shepherds knew that no ordinary beast might do this. Only sorcery could explain how the creature evaded their watchfulness, and only some manner of evil spirit would have such ravenous hunger. As any child would know, there are a few ways to render magic powerless, and the best of these methods is with salt.”

  Jawad nodded; salt was the preservation of life and the bane of any evil sorcerer. Zaida spoke again. “Sneaking into the tribe’s salt jars, he stole all he could carry and took it to their herds of sheep, where he rubbed the salt into the wool of each animal by the neck. This done, he pressed the remaining grains into his shepherd’s staff, lodging them inside the wood, and then he began to keep watch.”

  “Hours passed, and slumber slowly overtook him until he was woken by an unnatural scream. Rushing from his post, he saw a dead sheep with its neck broken by powerful jaws. The sound he had heard was not the death rattle of the prey, however, but from the predator biting into the salt. The shepherd was amazed to find it was nothing more than a desert fox, small in stature, but clearly with teeth that could kill. He wasted no time but struck the beast on its head with his staff that he had strengthened with salt. The fox fell to the ground, all but stunned, and he leapt to pin it down while his hand drew his dagger.”

  Jawad leaned forward, not daring to speak. Zaida’s expression showed her to be likewise enraptured. “Knowing that this was not a being of flesh but of air and fire, he plunged his dagger into the heart of the fox. It is the only place they are vulnerable, which is why some of these fell creatures cut out their own hearts and hide them deep in the ground or on mountain peaks. This was not the case. As the shepherd struck his knife down, he felt it reach the heart of the fox, beating inside its body. Yet he was not prepared to hear the fox suddenly speak in his own tongue. ‘Do not kill me!’ it said with a woman’s voice.”

  “It spoke?” exclaimed Jawad without meaning to.

  Zaida nodded. “The shepherd was as surprised as you are. ‘What manner of being are you?’ he asked sternly. The fox revealed that it was a jinni of the desert, and it would reward him if he showed it mercy. The shepherd considered this. By their nature as creatures of air, the jinn are fickle, prone to forgetting a promise as soon as it is made. But the shepherd was no fool and took the crystal that he always wore around his neck, large enough to fill his palm. Such talismans are often worn by the desert dwellers, as crystals are created by the purest of moonlight, which the jinn cannot abide. This is also why the jinn must remain hidden during nights of full moon.” Jawad did not know crystals had this property; if he had been asked about this topic, and this particular crystal with its described size, he would on the other hand have been confident in estimating its value to be around forty silver pieces.

  “Knowing the power that the crystal would hold over the jinni, the shepherd withdrew his blade and let the blood drip onto the stone. The jinni gave another scream, but there was nothing to be done. As the crystal absorbed the blood, it turned deep red, also absorbing the power of the jinni. No longer able to retain its shape as a fox, the spirit returned to its form as a beautiful woman.” Jawad hid his smile; the jinni always turned into a beautiful woman in these stories, sooner or later. Not that he minded.

  “The jinni looked at the shepherd in defeat. ‘Three drops of my heart’s blood you have stolen,’ she said. ‘Three favours I will bestow upon you in return if you swear to release me afterwards.’ The shepherd nodded his agreement to this. ‘I swear,’ he told her.”

  “What did he wish for?” Jawad asked. His mind was already swimming with thoughts of what he would want in such a situation.

  “First, he demanded that the jinni left the lands of his tribe. Second, that she would not seek vengeance against him. Third, t
hat she would stay the night with him.” Jawad nodded; those were standard wishes when dealing with jinn. “She agreed, of course, and granted him all three favours. This was not the end of the story, though.” The corner of Jawad’s mouth curled upwards; it never was.

  “As night ended but before morning came, in the twilight between darkness and sunrise, the jinni rose from where they had lain and spoke in scorn. ‘As my blood gave you power over me, so have you given your blood to me,’ she told him. ‘With the crystal you pronounced this doom upon me, and so shall the jewel become your own prison. You sought to banish me from this land, so be it. Neither shall your kindred be content to dwell here, but ever feel restless and look elsewhere. You sought to keep me from vengeance upon you, so be it. Ever shall ruin threaten your descendants in your stead, and should they ever lose possession of the jewel, they will face the vengeance you escaped. You sought to possess me, so be it. You shall have more of me than you ever wanted, and while your kindred possess the jewel, greed will enflame their hearts to always want more.’ With these words, the jinni laughed and disappeared before sunrise. But the story continues.”

  “What more?”

  “As time passed, the jinni’s words came true. The shepherd had only ever one child, a daughter, and the more she grew, the more she resembled the jinni. He knew then that she was the third curse pronounced upon him and that all three would be visited upon his descendants. They would leave the desert, but always be restless. They would be forced to keep the jewel or face the ruin promised by the jinni’s vengeance, but it would also ignite a fire in their heart for riches that no amount of wealth could quench. Thus they would never find happiness in life.”

  “Harsh.”

  Zaida nodded. “The shepherd wore the jewel close to his heart for the rest of his life. When he died, it passed to his daughter, who passed it to her own child and so forth. Because of this and its red colour, it was named the Heart of the Sands. For while we may have lived in many cities and foreign lands since, driven by restlessness, we are the House of al-Badawi, and the desert was our home first.”

  Jawad bowed in his seat. “A wonderful story, sayidaty. I know it to be true, for surely only the blood of a jinni can explain your enchanting nature.”

  She laughed. “Master Jawad, please. You already live in my father’s house. I do not see what else you might stand to gain with this flattery. Besides, it is merely a story.”

  “All stories have a grain of truth to them,” Jawad argued. He remembered his own time in the desert and the strange things he had seen, one night in particular. Granted, that had been after eating the olives.

  “Perhaps. Certainly, one of my ancestors would have been a shepherd in the desert, regardless of how much my father might dislike that we have such humble origins. But I know the rest of the story to be merely a phantasm for a simple reason.”

  “Which is?”

  “If my father owned a ruby the size of a man’s palm, I would have heard of it. In fact, he would have sold it by now.” Zaida’s smile faltered a little while Jawad’s thoughts strayed; a ruby of that size would be worth a score of gold coins at least. “Perhaps that part is true. My father has parted with the jewel, and now the jinni’s vengeance is coming. It would explain all the misfortune that has befallen us in the last few years.”

  It took Jawad a moment to remember that Zaida reviewed her father’s commerce every week; she would know as well as anyone the state of affairs for Dār al-Allawn. “The curse of a jinni would explain how you ended up drinking cold tea with only a rogue for company,” he admitted.

  Zaida laughed once again, and Jawad felt a tingle of pride for every time he had made that occur tonight. “You are quite right. I fear we did the tea a disservice. Nonetheless, for the sake of propriety, let us declare that we have had our fill that we may retire for the night in good conscience.” She rose from her seat.

  Jawad followed suit, inclining his head. “A wise proposal, sayidaty. I bid you good night.”

  “Good night, Master Jawad.”

  She disappeared into the palace. Jawad stood for a moment, glancing towards the sky. To his surprise, he could see the earliest inkling of twilight; while it felt but a brief time, the night had almost passed. It was only now he recalled that he had intended to infiltrate Dār al-Gund, and he knew that he had missed his chance; it would be daylight before he even arrived at the compound. His visit would have to wait until the following night.

  13. Tibert

  The next day, Jawad strolled around the palace, having nothing to do but wait for night to arrive. He soon found himself outside; the orchards surrounding the buildings still made him marvel. While he had seen such gardens before, it had usually been while making a stealthy entrance to or hasty exit from a mark, leaving him little time to enjoy the lush surroundings. Each time he wandered into al-Badawi’s gardens, he felt like he was entering a jinni’s palace after marching through the desert.

  His wanderings eventually led him to the courtyard, and he paused upon seeing a great stallion tied up by the stable. It was a magnificent beast; Jawad had little knowledge of horses, but he imagined this specimen would fetch a better price than many a slave. Its harness was made from black leather and silver clasps, shining brightly; all of it was definitely worth a pretty petty too.

  Jawad approached the stable boy who was tending to the horse, greeting him with a smile. “That’s quite an animal!”

  “Isn’t he,” the boy replied with affection. “He’s fit for a king.”

  “Is Salah going somewhere today?” Jawad could think of no other in the household who might ride this horse; from what he knew of al-Badawi, the merchant only allowed himself to be transported by carriage these days.

  “This does not belong to the master,” the stable boy informed him. “He is just a visitor, aren’t you, big boy.” He patted the stallion’s neck.

  “Who is visiting?”

  “I don’t know his name.” The servant bit his lip. “Salah greeted him, but I don’t remember. Oh, I think he mentioned Dār al-Imāra.”

  Riding such an expensive horse across the city without guards, Jawad considered, was the kind of behaviour he would expect from a young, wealthy man such as Faisal al-Musharaf. He felt that old beast awakening that lived inside every thief; curiosity demanded to know what dealings Dār al-Imāra had with Dār al-Allawn.

  ~~~~

  It was not hard to track the two men down; they were not hiding, and luckily for Jawad, they had not confined themselves to the harāmlik where he could not go. Instead, they were walking down corridors, deep in conversation. Jawad snuck closer.

  “The steel is thrice as expensive, but the investment is well worth it,” Faisal claimed.

  “If only. My master thinks that as long as a guard looks dangerous, that should be enough,” Salah sighed. “Not that I question his judgement,” he added hastily.

  Faisal laughed. “Of course not, good Salah. Besides, unless my eyes deceive me, you wear Nordsteel by your side.” He nodded at the blade by Salah’s waist while his left hand rested casually on the hilt of his own sword as they walked leisurely around. It was unusual to see any member of Alcázar’s mercantile aristocracy wear a proper weapon, and Faisal’s stance made it obvious that it was not merely for appearance’s sake. He stood and walked as Salah did; no wonder the two found conversation easy.

  “Your eyes tell you true. Dwarven-forged as well, if you believe such tales,” Salah said wryly before changing the topic. “When does your father return?”

  “Not soon, I fear,” Faisal replied, “but he will be back in time for the ceremony of rings, I am sure. I believe one of your servants wishes your attention but does not dare intrude upon us,” the young man continued, turning to stare at Jawad.

  Embarrassment washed over the thief. He had been spotted, and not by a guard or servant or even a slave, but worse than that. Normally, the wealthy only took notice of who they wanted to see, which would be people of their own standing o
r higher. To be noticed by someone with a name as lengthy as Faisal al-Musharaf would get Jawad laughed out at every tavern in southern Alcázar. “Jawad? What is it?” asked Salah.

  “Forgive me. I should have retreated the moment I saw you were in company with an esteemed guest,” he replied, seeking to extricate himself.

  “Jawad? Salah has mentioned you to me,” Faisal remarked.

  The thief in question sent the warrior a confused glance. “He has?” Jawad imagined Salah issuing a warning about keeping a tight grasp on all valuables if alhajin was spotted skulking about.

  “He explained that you have been instrumental in tightening the defences of Dār al-Allawn, plugging every gap there might be. Salah boasts that your house is nigh impenetrable. I have no doubt as to your deep loyalties to your current master, and I shall make no attempt to steal you away, but I know my father would pay heavy silver for services such as yours,” Faisal explained.

  Jawad’s face twitched, reminding him of the recent pains. This had to be some form of intricate jest. “Master al-Badawi is a virtuous master in every respect,” he said smoothly, “but I am humbled by your words, sidi.”

  “So humble it comes out both ends,” Salah mumbled.

  “Forgive me?” asked Faisal.

  Salah coughed. “I merely suggested we continue. I am sure Jawad has duties to attend to.”

  “Of course.” The young nobleman nodded to Jawad. “Farewell, Master Jawad.”

  “Farewell, sidi.” Jawad made a hasty retreat; it only occurred to him afterwards that he had failed entirely to deduce the reason for Dār al-Imāra’s visit.

  ~~~~

  At nightfall, Jawad stayed true to his purpose. Leaving al-Badawi’s palace, he walked the familiar route towards Dār al-Gund. The streets were mostly empty save for guards on patrol or, Jawad assumed, al-Badawi’s spy watching him. He took care to avoid the former while also ensuring that the latter did not lose track of him; an odd, almost awkward situation, but it broke the monotony of breaking into the same place twice.