by D E Olesen
He knew that going to southern Alcázar or Almudaina was a risk with the Black Teeth still out for blood. It was hard for Jawad to understand exactly why he suddenly longed to walk the streets or run across the rooftops of the southern medinas; there was certainly nothing in the shambled huts of Almudaina to make a man long for that place. The idea that he would sit on soft pillows eating fresh bread in one of the finest palaces in the city and wish himself elsewhere was laughable; nonetheless, it was true.
He was alhajin, a child of the streets. His mind turned to the ships he had watched with awe in his childhood, entering the harbour of Alcázar. They ploughed the open seas, steered by their captains following no master but the direction of the wind. He recalled that once, going beyond the city, he had seen a ship dragged ashore to have its hull repaired. It looked trapped outside its proper element, paralysed, its pride and strength made void.
Jawad knew that these sentiments were nothing more than a weakness of his. He was not under any form of duress or threat. The most careful plans were often ruined by impatience. Instead, he found games to while away the time. He stole small objects of insignificant value from the others in the palace, waiting an hour before putting them back with none the wiser. He planted seeds of gossip in the ears of the servants, often over servings of tea, watching them bicker and argue with amusement.
After seven days of this, Jawad grew bored of even his boredom. While it would still be a few days before news arrived from Labdah and his plans could advance, he could at least check his preparations. Crossing all of southern Alcázar to reach Almudaina beyond the walls was too big a risk to run without good reason, but he should pay a visit to Amal. After all, there would be no point in going through all this trouble to steal the dye if she had not found any buyers.
Should that be the case, he could perhaps arrange for Dār al-Gund to buy the lot, but Jawad preferred that as a last resort. While he had dealings with the northerners, he had not actually done business with them, and when it came to thievery and fencing, the law provided no guarantees of honourable conduct. In Jawad’s world, no relationship was as sacred as that between thief and fence, and he was not going to trust the plunder of a lifetime to the likes of Tibert. Amal, on the other hand, he had known for years, and she had never cheated him out of his payment. If a buyer could be found for three dozen jars of purple dye, she would be the one he would trust with the mark.
Merely the thought of his excursion cheered Jawad up. The distance from Amal to Ishak was not too far either; he could drop by and see how the brewer fared with the mixtures Jawad had requisitioned from him. It was a sign of Jawad’s state of mind that the thought of visiting the surly fence and the crazed alchemist put him in a good mood. Disregarding this notion, Jawad took his tools, a few coins for spending, some cloth to cover his head, and left the palace one early morning.
~~~~
The sun was still mild this early, making for a pleasant walk; it was one of the reasons Jawad had chosen this hour. The coolness of the morning meant that the streets were busy with people running errands or doing work, another reason for Jawad’s choice. Slaves and hojon moved in all directions, carrying goods. The children of the street ran around, some playing, some working, many of them stealing. Jawad felt their gaze upon him constantly, but he was not concerned; he knew all their tricks, having employed them himself in his own childhood.
Leaving the main street that led to the southern gate, Jawad entered the medina where Amal lived. Reaching her house, he briefly considered crawling up the wall to enter through her window, just to keep in shape, before he dismissed the idea. It was too conspicuous, and he should not draw attention to himself these days. He entered through the front door, walked up the stairs, and knocked on her door.
“Who is it?” Jawad removed the cloth around his head to reveal his face, smiling at the spyhole. Slowly, the door opened. “Come on in,” Amal told him hesitantly.
“Inviting me in? I knew you’d warm up to me.”
“Shut up.”
“You have to admit, it’s nice to converse without a door between us.” He stepped inside.
“Why are you here?”
Jawad smiled. “In a few days, I’ll know where our purple gold is stored, and the rest is a matter for the storytellers. Of course, we won’t get anywhere without someone willing to buy the lot.”
“I have someone in mind,” Amal nodded.
“In mind? You haven’t approached them?”
“I have,” she replied hastily. “We’re just figuring out the details. The jars will have marked seals, no doubt. We need to change them once the dye is in our possession. That requires preparation too. It’s not as simple as merely walking up to someone and asking them if they fancy a score of jars with purple dye.”
“Of course not, but I imagined such trivialities would be handled by our prospective buyer,” Jawad frowned.
“It doesn’t matter what you imagine,” Amal said curtly. She glanced at the door. “I’m thirsty. Do you want some water?”
“I’m fine,” Jawad told her, narrowing his eyes as he watched the woman pour a cup of water and drink it slowly. “Amal, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve never offered me anything before. The last few times I was here, you couldn’t wait to get rid of me, but this time you invite me in. You haven’t even cursed at me once.” His gaze moved towards the door. “You’re stalling.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You sold me out,” Jawad stated. “The Black Teeth?” He suddenly realised why the children on the streets had been watching him so intently.
“I’m sorry, Jawad. They’ve been watching –”
He saw no reason to waste time listening to her excuses. He turned towards the window and aimed a kick at the shutters, throwing them open. He jumped onto the ledge and began his descent down the wall.
“He’s here, boys! I see him!”
Fuck.
He dropped down to land on the ground and set into a sprint immediately. At every corner, someone appeared to grab or tackle him. Jawad twisted and turned, jumping over barrels and under carts as he ran for his life through the medinas of Alcázar. Thoughts raced in his mind in concert with his frenzied escape. They would expect him to flee north, beyond their reach. He might fool them by turning south, and beyond the gate lay Almudaina. Its centre was a labyrinth for outsiders, built with the very intention to hide those inside. Jawad felt a glimmer of hope and began running southwards.
People got pushed aside or to the ground. Loud curses followed Jawad on his way along with the constant shouts from the Black Teeth, tightening the noose around him. Dogs barked, women scolded his reckless running, and children watched in excitement.
The guards at the gate saw the young thief bolting towards them, pursuers hot on his heels. Their only reaction was to step aside. They were well familiar with the Black Teeth; if one criminal wanted to kill another, they saw no reason to get in the way. In their eyes, all of the hojon were criminals.
Passing through, Jawad saw Almudaina sprawled out before him. Relief flooded his mind, and he had never been so thrilled before to see its derelict buildings. He ran down the only thing that could be described as a street. The residents of the shantytown made sure to keep their distance. Occurrences such as this were common, and they knew better than to get involved.
Jawad’s heart felt like it would burst in his chest, and he had a pain in his side. It had been a long time since he had been forced to run for his life. At some point, he had also lost one sandal, impeding his speed and causing his sole to be torn up with every step. But ahead of him, salvation beckoned in the form of Ghulam’s shed and the entrance to the inner maze of Almudaina.
He reached the door. It was bolted. Frantically, he tried to force it open. “Ghulam! Open!”
“I can’t,” came the reply. “The Teeth warned me.”
“Ghulam!”
“They’ll raze this
place to get to you.”
“Help me!”
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Jawad kicked at the door; the only result was that he drove splinters of wood into his uninjured foot. “Fuck!” he yelled in pain and frustration.
“He’s over here!”
“Hurry!”
“Get him!”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Jawad bolted. All through Almudaina, shouts could be heard. They were coming at him from every angle, and he was low on options. He fled the place, running past the decrepit huts into open space. He ran and ran on the stiff, brown grass that covered the plateau upon which Almudaina stood; soon, he reached its end. Only cliffs were ahead of him and a drastic fall into the sea.
Jawad looked down. It was madness to jump, which meant his pursuers would not risk the same. If luck and all the gods were on his side, he would miss the cliff and hit the water. The only problem was that Jawad did not know how to swim. People could be negotiated with; drowning could not.
The thief turned his back on certain death to face certain agony. He stared at Hashim, the greatest brute in a gang of cutthroats. He sent Jawad a vicious smile that made it clear he had not forgotten the night when Jawad’s information had lured Hashim and his thieves into an ambush. Meanwhile, more of the Black Teeth were coming.
“Hashim!” Jawad sent him a broad smile. “Fancy we should meet here of all places.”
“I’m going to enjoy every little moment of this,” he promised.
“Now, I can explain –” Jawad was interrupted by a fist to his mouth, and he remained silent as the thieves dragged him to the Broken Tooth.
15. The Master
The basement under the Broken Tooth contained what could be expected from a storage room in a tavern. Barrels of wine and ale lined the walls. Bags of flour stacked in a corner. Another barrel full of herring and a few other, indeterminable fish. Pickled vegetables of every kind. And in one end of the room, a rack.
On his journey to the favoured establishment of the Black Teeth, Jawad had been knocked out. As he came to, he found himself naked and strapped to the aforementioned torture device. Leather strips kept his ankles in place, his arms along his sides, and his head from moving.
“You’re awake. We can begin.”
The voice belonged to a woman outside his field of vision. Jawad struggled, but the restraints kept him from seeing anything. “You have the advantage of me, I think. Would proper introductions be in order?”
A woman moved to stand by his side as he lay on the rack, bending over to enter his line of sight. “Of course, how rude of me. I am Basmah. I have the distinct pleasure of being your torturer.”
Jawad swallowed. “A pleasure.” He had thought Hashim would be the one breaking his kneecaps, given his propensity for violence and thirst for revenge. He would not voluntarily have relinquished this opportunity, meaning someone higher than Hashim in the hierarchy of the Teeth had taken an interest in Jawad. “Basmah, there may be a mistake here. I am nothing more than a petty thief. I don’t deserve all this attention.”
She smiled. “You’re saying that you didn’t betray my brethren and lure them into an ambush?”
“Exactly! I gave them a tip, but they must have misunderstood or made some error, alerting the guards.” Jawad tried to nod eagerly, managing only to shake the leather strap around his forehead.
She drew out a piece of parchment. “That’s odd. See, the warehouse in question belongs to the merchant al-Badawi. And you were found carrying this, explaining that you are a servant of Dār al-Allawn, bearing his seal and signature.”
Jawad grew pale. “Just a bit of subterfuge. I stole that from one of his servants. It’s useful for letting me move around the city at night.” The last sentence was true and why Jawad had kept it on him; now he cursed himself for having done so.
Basmah nodded, retreating out of his line of sight. “Of course. Jawad, I should explain a rule to you. Every time you lie to me, there are consequences.” He began to protest, but she silenced him by placing a gag in his mouth. “In case it’s not obvious, the consequences are pain.”
The torture began next.
~~~~
An hour later, Jawad lost consciousness. A bucket of water to his face swiftly remedied that. As he came to, confusion overtook his mind momentarily. He stared up into the ceiling and saw only the stonework. Struggling against his restraints reminded him how tightly he was tied up and that every part of him hurt.
Added to this, several heavy stones had been placed on his chest to make him fight for every breath.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Basmah told him. “This is pretty simple. Almost the work of an amateur, you might be tempted to say.” Jawad was not tempted to say anything; he was focusing on keeping still to avoid disturbing his wounds. “I assure you, it is only the beginning. It is important to start slow when torturing someone, so you can escalate as the situation calls for it.”
She moved constantly in and out of his sight while talking; each time, fear shot through him that she was preparing some new instrument of agony.
“I am going to ask you again, Jawad. Did you lure my precious little boys into an ambush?”
She removed the gag to let him answer. “Yes,” he admitted with a hoarse voice, wincing a little from the pain.
She gave a relieved sigh. “The truth. Thank you, Jawad.” She brought a small cup to his lips, and he drank eagerly; his throat was devoid of moisture. “I think we can be friends after all.” He made no reply to that. “It all depends on how you answer my next questions, of course.”
Jawad could not imagine what else she wanted to know. The only reason he had held out for an hour before confessing was because he thought they would kill him immediately after.
“What, my dear Jawad, are you doing in the palace of al-Badawi?”
“I – I live there. For the time being.”
“But what is your purpose?” While she talked, she walked around the rack, letting her fingers run over his skin.
“Meals and a roof over my head.”
“Jawad.” Disappointment filled her voice. “That’s a lie.”
~~~~
It lasted two hours before Basmah ceased her work; she had to revive Jawad more than once in that time span, and he had lost one of his teeth in the back of his mouth and several toe nails.
“What are you doing in the palace of al-Badawi, Jawad?”
The thief gasped for breath, trying to buy time to think. Somewhere in the fog of his thoughts, his mind resisted the idea of telling them about the purple dye. This scum did not deserve such a mark; his mark that he had planned out. His mind sought for any other plausible reason he could give them.
“I’m – I’m looking for the Prince on his behalf.” That was not even a lie.
“Come now, Jawad, that’s merely what you pretend. By all accounts, the Prince is in Gadir. He hasn’t even been in Alcázar for months.”
“It’s the truth,” Jawad protested.
“But not the one I want. Why is a petty thief like you living in Dār al-Allawn, Jawad?”
The House of Colour. The truth became obvious to him. They already knew about the purple dye. This question was to see if he had broken; they would know if he told the truth thanks to Amal, who had told them all about it. Of course she had. Fucking Amal. “I’m planning a mark against him,” Jawad admitted, accepting defeat.
Basmah smiled. “Tell me more.”
“He has a shipment of dye arriving in the next few days. Purple. Worth a kingdom.”
“You think you can steal it?”
“I know all the measures taken by al-Badawi to protect his properties. I was the one who suggested them.” Every word stung Jawad’s tongue, partly from physical pain, partly from throwing it all in the arms of Black Teeth. “I was only waiting for the cargo to arrive. Then I would break in with a crew and steal the lot.”
“Brilliant.” She lifted the cup to his lips again, and he dra
nk eagerly; water had never tasted so sweet to him before. “You are too humble, Jawad. No petty thief would have such lofty ambitions. Unlike me, I have no ambitions to speak of. I simply do as my master tells me.”
“Dogs have worth too.”
Anger flashed across her face; she suddenly had a knife in her hand, and she moved it across his collarbone slowly, drawing blood. She followed up with her finger, pushing it against the broken skin and into his new wound. “I shouldn’t lose my temper,” she admitted regretfully, licking the blood on her finger. “Where was I? Ah, yes. My master. He would like to carry out your plan.”
“I bet.”
“I need you to be a good little thief and tell me everything necessary to complete the mark.”
This was it. The only reason he was still alive. And if he told them everything, that reason would be gone. But until then, he possessed knowledge they wanted. If it were not for the excruciating pain he had just endured, Jawad would have smiled. “I need to know the name of the ship first.”
“Why?” She let the bloody blade of her knife tap against his nose as an implied threat.
“Each of al-Badawi’s ships has its cargo taken to a specific warehouse,” Jawad claimed with laboured breathing. The stones on his chest made him sound and feel perpetually out of breath. “As soon as I know the ship, I’ll know the location.”
“How were you planning to find out?”
“The harbourmaster records the arrival of each ship and everything it carries. I was going to break into his offices in a few days’ time and check his records.”
Basmah scrutinised his face. “Wait here,” she told him, as if he had any choice, and disappeared.
~~~~
When Basmah returned, she was not alone. A short, overweight man dressed in garish clothing accompanied her. Despite those characteristics, it was obvious that none would dare to ridicule him. Everything about him exuded danger from the cold look in his eyes to how Basmah acted like a whipped hound every time he made a sudden movement.