by D E Olesen
Reaching Dār al-Gund, Jawad quickly located the same entry point as before, scaling the wall and jumping down behind the stables. Since this was an ordinary night, more caution was called for; on the other hand, having done all this before, Jawad felt confident he could do it blindfolded. He crossed the open space to reach the main hall. The stench of the dungheap reached his nostrils; nausea turned his stomach around, due to memory rather than the smell. No matter what, he was not going to repeat his exit from last time.
The kitchen door proved as pliable as last time. Stepping through it, Jawad locked it from the inside. He grabbed a few apples from a barrel on his way; he had a long night ahead of him.
~~~~
When morning came to Dār al-Gund, the clerks filed into the office, collected ledgers, took their seats by the writing desks, and began work. Shortly after, their master appeared. Tall and thin, he had a stern face that seemed unable to smile. His clothes were plain and sensible, belying the wealth of his position. He wore no tokens of affluence either, except a copper ring granting him the rights of a citizen and a gold ring with the seal of his house.
Passing through the office, he reached one end that held the door to his personal study. He quickly unlocked it and stepped inside. He had barely moved forward when he froze in his tracks. The study contained a few bookshelves, a desk containing a writing set and a chair behind it, and a sofa. On the final piece of furniture, a thief lay in repose.
Tibert shut the door behind him. “What are you doing here?” he sneered. He spoke the language of Alcázar in a stilted fashion, but it was easily intelligible.
Jawad opened an eye and turned slightly towards the merchant. Several apple cores fell from his stomach to the ground. “Master Tibert, well met. It was time we spoke.”
“You have not been summoned,” Tibert hissed. “This is not the agreement. It’s the middle of the day! Anyone might see you.”
“These are your people, Master Tibert, they’re hardly going to question your affairs.” Jawad yawned.
“I would appreciate a great deal more caution and common sense from you nonetheless. Why are you here?” the northerner reiterated.
“Al-Badawi, why else? I have a plan in mind.”
“Wait. Be quiet,” Tibert said emphatically, opening his door briefly. He barked a string of orders in the northern speech, raising his voice. To Jawad, it sounded like pebbles being crunched between his teeth. From what Jawad could hear, one of the scribes jumped up and ran off; he imagined the rest bowed their heads, writing diligently and avoiding eye contact with Tibert.
Jawad smiled as Tibert closed the door. “Shall we talk?”
“This was not the agreement. Renardine was to contact you first if we needed to speak again.”
“That would be difficult, effendi. I live in al-Badawi’s home, and when I leave it, he has spies watching my every move. If Renardine were to approach me, we would be revealed.”
“What kind of thief are you that you cannot shake pursuers?”
“Effendi, of course I can. But that would inform al-Badawi that not only am I aware he is having me followed, I am also carrying out activities I don’t wish him to know about.”
“Fine,” Tibert granted. “Does this mean he knows you are here? Does he suspect us?”
“He ordered me to investigate your house, effendi, as you are his rivals. He has no specific reason to suspect you,” Jawad said smoothly. “I have spent tonight meticulously searching your compound, as you can see.” He glanced at the eaten apples lying on the floor. “I will return to al-Badawi and inform him I found nothing, directing his attention elsewhere.”
“Good,” Tibert declared, relaxing. “As long as he still has that silver ring, he has the ear of the Kabir. He could cause many problems for us.”
“Then we best make sure he loses that ring,” Jawad smiled.
While he spoke, the door opened slightly ajar to let a slender figure slip in. The clothes, short hair, and smooth face suggested a young boy, but she moved with the confidence and posture of a trained warrior, despite the absence of conspicuous weapons. In fact, the only thing hanging by her belt was a small knife and a set of picks much like those carried by Jawad. She addressed her master in the Nordspeech, leaving Jawad clueless as to what was said.
“Yes,” Tibert replied, using the southern language. “Our intrepid – friend has taken it upon himself to visit us and discuss our future plans.”
Renardine sent Jawad a measured look. She had a scar across her face, which always wore a steeled expression. He had little doubt that if she wanted to, she could plant her dirk in his heart before he even had time to plead for his life. “Perhaps he needs to be reminded of his place in our arrangement. Let’s arrange another trip to the Tower of Justice for him, but this time, we leave him there to rot.”
Tibert raised a hand in a calming gesture while taking a seat behind his desk. “That will not be necessary. We do have matters to discuss.”
“As Master Tibert was saying before you graced us with your company, you would prefer if al-Badawi’s commerce deteriorated to the point he cannot pay tribute to the Kabir,” Jawad informed her. “I believe we should make that happen.”
“It is too late this year,” Tibert stated. “We had hoped to supplant his trade with the Kabir’s palace in yellow dye, but the wily old bastard must have expected it. He acted before we were ready.” Jawad kept his lips tightly shut. “It means that al-Badawi should have the coin to pay tribute to the Kabir and retain his silver ring. It will not be this year that Dār al-Gund takes his place among the Hundred Houses.”
“A pity,” Jawad feigned. If he learned tomorrow that Dār al-Gund had burned to the ground, he would have forgotten its name by the third day. “I do believe I have something even better. I am preparing a mark that will leave al-Badawi ruined. Even a copper ring will be beyond his means.”
“A mark?” asked Tibert, exchanging confused glances with Renardine.
“A theft,” Jawad elaborated; he had forgotten for a moment that his companions were foreigners and hardly fluent in the cant employed by thieves. “A prize so valuable that without it, all the trades of Dār al-Allawn will crumble.”
“What is it?”
“In a few weeks’ time, a ship will arrive in Alcázar from Labdah. Its entire cargo will be purple dye, meant to be sold here. All of al-Badawi’s wealth depends on it, and I intend to steal it.” Jawad smiled triumphantly. Denying al-Badawi the gold from the sale would be the final nail in his coffin; once Jawad did this, he would soon be done with the merchant.
Tibert leaned back. “I agree, it will strike a blow he cannot recover from. You are certain of this?”
Jawad nodded. “I have confirmation that the dye is arriving. The workers at the docks will keep watch for me, letting me know where it ends up. And thanks to my extensive knowledge of al-Badawi’s properties and precautions, I will know exactly how to steal it.”
“So why have you come?”
“I need one final piece of information. I will have the workers track the shipment the entire way from pier to warehouse, as soon as the ship moors in Alcázar. But they can only do this if they know what ship to watch.”
Tibert scratched his thin beard. “You need to know the ship.”
“It will be too late to find out once the ship arrives in Alcázar. The cargo will vanish into one of al-Badawi’s storehouses before I can discern its destination.”
“You need someone in Labdah to find the ship for you and warn you, so that you will be ready when it does arrive in Alcázar,” Tibert continued. He looked towards Renardine. “Can this be done?”
“Labdah is not far from here. There should be enough time.”
Jawad smiled. “Excellent. Soon, the house of al-Badawi will fall. Don’t you agree, princess?” he asked Renardine with what he imagined was a charming look.
“Every time you talk, I want to cut your tongue out,” she replied calmly.
“You sure know how
to ruin the mood,” Jawad mumbled.
“Enough,” declared Tibert. “While I applaud your plan, I have my doubts whether it will succeed.”
“I have everything prepared,” Jawad protested.
“Time is against us,” Tibert contemplated, ignoring Jawad. “Al-Badawi is beginning to suspect us. Your very presence is proof of that. His wealth is his power, and we must take that power from him before he makes a move against us.” He looked at Renardine. “How long until we will hear back from Labdah?”
“If I send a messenger today, ten days at the most.”
“Not much time to spare if the shipment arrives in less than two weeks,” Tibert considered.
“It will be enough,” Jawad claimed.
“Regardless, while you busy yourself with this, we will plan for contingencies,” the merchant said, looking at Renardine briefly. “Return to us in ten days, and we will provide you with the information you need.”
Jawad grinned. “Excellent!” He frowned for a moment. “What contingencies are you intending?”
Tibert gave a shrug. “One way or another, al-Badawi must be ruined. If you fail to steal the dye, I see only one recourse.”
Renardine gave a harsh smile. “There’s nothing like fire to cleanse away the old and make room for new.”
Jawad paled a little. “I thought we agreed that setting fire to his warehouses was a tad too conspicious, not to mention destructive?” A fire inside the city could be catastrophic, especially since it was too early for the winter rains to arrive, and every wooden building in the city was dryer than the desert.
“We agreed nothing,” Tibert sneered. “Do not presume your opinion bears any weight.”
Jawad was not what most considered an upstanding citizen of Alcázar. Strictly speaking, he was not even a citizen, and he earned his living by illicit means, which meant he never paid taxes either; an arrangement he was most satisfied with. Even so, the thought of fires ravaging his home gave him reason to pause. Yet knew that the same would not apply to these northerners, who had only came to Alcázar in the search of coin. “My apologies, effendi,” he smiled.
“If the thought bothers you, you need simply to carry out your plan, and ours will not be needed,” Renardine said. Her smile reminded Jawad of a wolf. “I will make arrangements immediately for Labdah,” she added, directed at Tibert. He gave a cursory nod, and she left without delay.
“I suppose there is no need for me to linger about either,” Jawad said.
Tibert glanced out the window. It was still morning. “How do you expect to leave here unseen?” He nodded towards the door, beyond which sat a score of scribes or more. “That room will not be empty until evening.”
Jawad gave a sly smile. “You could let them finish work early?”
“Preposterous.”
The thief got up from the sofa and walked over to the window, opening it. He glanced down the outer wall that looked smooth and difficult to climb. He turned back towards Tibert. “You wouldn’t mind if I waited in your study, would you? Just until nightfall.”
“Get out.”
With more bruises and less dignity than when he arrived, Jawad made yet another inelegant retreat from Dār al-Gund.
14. Hospitality
Returning to the home of al-Badawi, Jawad sought out Salah at once. “Is the master at home? I have exciting news!”
Salah sent him a scrutinising glance. “I’ll be the judge of that. What do you have to tell?”
Jawad grinned. “How about the identity of the Prince of Cats?”
“That’ll do.” The thief noticed with satisfaction that Salah sounded impressed. “Follow me.”
They walked swiftly through winding corridors to reach al-Badawi’s study; Salah knocked briefly and stepped inside. “What is it?” asked the merchant curtly.
Salah gestured for Jawad to approach and speak. “Good master, I have found the Prince of Cats.”
Al-Badawi’s head whipped up. “Who is he?”
“It is a confounding tale,” Jawad began to say. “After deducing that the Prince would be a northerner, I spied upon Dār al-Gund. All I saw were servants, scribes, guards, and the like but one.”
“Who?”
“Short, slender, adroit, and dexterious with a set of tools akin to mine.” He rattled the lock picks hanging in his belt. “There can be no doubt.”
“Get to the point,” al-Badawi demanded irritated.
“I did not acquire a name. Their foreign tongue is nonsense in my ears. But our elusive Prince is easily distinguishable due to one thing in particular.”
“What is it?” asked Salah.
Jawad smiled. “She is a woman.”
“You jest,” exclaimed the warrior.
“I do not believe it,” the merchant said with scorn. “How could a woman accomplish all the feats attributed to the Prince?”
“Is it so strange? A slim, nimble woman would make for an excellent thief. She can hide easily, move undetected, and many paths closed to a bigger man would be accessible to her.”
Salah nodded slowly. “There is some truth to that. After all, we are not looking for an honourable warrior, but some thieving scum. Fighting from the shadows is what I would expect from someone weak, like a thief or a wench.” Jawad did his best not to feel insulted.
“Besides, she takes orders directly from the master of Dār al-Gund. She is his right hand man – woman,” Jawad added. “All of your troubles has been orchestrated by him.”
“It should not be difficult to find out if he’s right,” Salah claimed. “We will set a sharp watch around Dār al-Gund. There can’t be more than one woman inside that compound fitting this description. We’ll catch her in the act now that we know where to find her.”
Al-Badawi gave a brief nod to Salah. “See it done.”
~~~~
The following days saw little excitement. The only thing out of the ordinary was Salah being away at most hours along with some of his men, and it provided no entertainment to the residents of the estate. It was thus a welcome break from routine when a tall and handsome youth rode into the courtyard on a black stallion; as the stable boy hurried to take the reins, a servant announced the arrival of Faisal al-Musharaf.
Shortly after, the man in question stepped into the gardens, deep in conversation with Zaida. “I am surprised you would seek to speak to me alone,” she admitted.
He smiled. “Why would that be unexpected? Do you have such little faith in your powers of conversation?”
“No, I simply –” She paused as she saw his expression. “You tease me, Master Faisal.”
“I cannot help it,” he confessed. “Swordplay, dancing, conversation, all three are games of dexterity, whether it be physical or mental.”
“I have not heard it described before in this manner. You enjoy games, I take it.”
“Of every sort,” Faisal assented. “It is the privilege of youth to indulge in such. Each day, I have one moment less for leisure than I had yesterday, which is one moment more than I will have tomorrow.”
“How old will you be when all your moments are spent?”
“I wish to never find out,” he smiled.
“That can speak either of hope or despair,” she considered.
“Only fate can tell if it will be one or the other. Is that not the wisdom of the poets?”
She glanced at him as they walked along the pathways between berry bushes in bloom. “It is, though when it comes to the study of the ten virtues, poetic gift is oft neglected.”
He laughed. “You are clear-sighted, Lady Zaida. As a boy, I found pursuit of the other virtues to be more exhilarating, much to the consternation of my father and my tutors.”
“My father left me mostly to my own devices during my childhood. I should be thankful to him for that,” Zaida mused. “It allowed me to pursue arithmetic as I desired.”
“I have heard word of your work making observations of the stars,” Faisal mentioned. “I fear it is above my hea
d, but I should like to hear you tell me of it nonetheless.”
She frowned, stopping underneath a pear tree. “I could speak for hours on the subject, but why do you ask if it would bore you?”
“If our fathers can reach an agreement, you and I will be bound together.” His eyes had been wandering around the orchard, but they came to rest upon her face. “I should like to know you as well as possible beforehand. Affection is not a storm, but a seed. It should be nurtured and watered if it is to blossom.” He gave a wry smile. “I do not recall the poem quite, but something like that.”
She laughed a little. “Close enough,” she told him, placing her hand on his arm. “Very well, since you are brave enough to venture forth, I shall tell you all.”
They began walking again. “You make it sound as if I am charging the front lines, not making pleasant conversation in beautiful surroundings.”
She laughed again as they continued on their path. Behind them, Jawad leaned down from a branch upon the pear tree, staring at their backs; soon, the distance blurred their voices, and he heard nothing more. He threw his half-eaten pear away and let himself drop to the ground, going the opposite direction of the beautiful couple.
~~~~
The next week left Jawad restless. There was little he could do other than wait for word to arrive from Labdah. Until the northerners could inform him about the ship carrying his chosen prize, Jawad’s plans were on hold. There were no services he could perform to ingratiate himself further with al-Badawi; Salah and his spies had taken over the hunt for the Prince to verify his information. He was not sure if he wanted to meet Zaida again or avoid her; in the end, it did not matter as she remained inside the harāmlik and thus beyond his reach.
Soon, Jawad began to feel much as he did when jailed in the Finger. In most aspects, it was an unfair comparison. He was not chained nor beaten, the food was infinitely better, he slept on a proper bed, and he could bathe as he pleased. But he was still consigned to remain inside four walls, even if they covered much more ground than a cell.